WEDLOCK 


JOHN 
STRANGE 
WINT1 


WEDLOCK 


WEDLOCK 


BY 


JOHN  STRANGE  WINTER 

Author  of  " Beetle's  Baby,"  "Grip,"  "Into  an  Unknown  World,' 
"The  Truth  Tellers,"  Etc.,  Etc. 


NEW  YORK 
R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 

9  AND  ii  EAST  i6TH  STREET 


Copyright,  1898 

BY 
R.  F.  FKNNO  &  COMPANY 


Wedlock 


WEDLOCK 

CHAPTEE  I 

THE  DINNER   OF   HERBS 

"  I  HAVE  great  news  for  you,  Mary ;  Captain 
Conway  has  been  here." 

"  Captain  Conway — yes !  And  what  did  he 
want,  mother  ?  What  news  did  he  bring  ?  " 

Mary  Hamilton  took  off  her  black  straw  hat 
as  she  spoke  and  pushed  the  hair  away  from 
her  forehead  with  a  weary  gesture.  Mrs. 
Hamilton  busied  herself  with  the  simple  tea- 
table,  assiduously  arranging  plates,  setting  the 
teaspoons  straight  in  the  saucers,  laying  the 
butter-knife  at  an  exact  angle,  and  smoothing 
away  an  infinitesimal  crease  in  the  white 

cloth. 

7 


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Ad  A«»A<nrf  *_>  \J.J^.\J 


8  Wedlock 

"He — he — he  made  a  suggestion  to  me, 
Mary,"  she  began,  nervously. 

"  A  suggestion ! "  Mary  Hamilton  sat  down 
and  eyed  her  mother  expectantly.  "  You  don't 
mean  that  he  proposed  to  you,  mother,"  she 
exclaimed. 

"  Something  very  like  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton, still  keeping  herself  very  busy  with  the 
table. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  between 
them ;  Mary  Hamilton  sat  looking  with  as- 
tonishment at  her  mother  and  at  last  she 
spoke. 

"  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing  in 
the  mere  way  of  money,  mother,"  she  said, 
slowly.  "  But — but — oh,  mother  dear,  you 
could  never  bring  yourself  to  do  it." 

For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Hamilton  turned  and 
looked  straight  at  her  daughter.  "  My  dear 
child,"  she  exclaimed — "you  don't  understand. 


The  Dinner  of  Herbs  9 

There  is  no  question  of  my  marrying  Captain 
Con  way — it  is — at  least  he  never — besides  my 
devotion  to  your  poor  father's  memory  should 
have  kept  you  from  jumping  to  any  such  con- 
clusion. Captain  Conway  is  a  good  man,  and 
any  woman  might  be  honored  in  marrying 
him,  but  my  heart  is  in  the  grave  and — and 
besides,  he  did  not  propose,  he  does  not  pro- 
pose that  /  should  consider  the  question  of  be- 
coming his  wife." 

Mary  Hamilton  stared  open-eyed  at  her 
mother.  "  Dear  mother,"  she  said,  gently — 
"  I  am  tired  to-night — the  children  were  very 
troublesome  to-day  and  the  rooms  seemed  more 
stuffy  than  usual.  I  feel  confused.  Do  tell 
me  just  what  Captain  Conway  did  suggest  to 
you." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  began  to  pour  out  the  tea 
with  a  vehemence  which  showed  how  per- 
turbed in  mind  she  was.  "  Your  poor  father 


1O  Wedlock 

always  said  that  I  was  injudicious  in  telling 
news,"  she  cried,  in  honest  self-abasement.  "  I 
ought  to  have  seen  that  you  were  tired.  Here 
is  your  tea,  darling.  Drink  it  at  once  and 
have  another  cup  to  go  on  with.  The  truth 
is,  Mary,  that  Captain  Conway  has  flurried  me 
till  I  hardly  know  whether  I  am  standing  on 
my  head  or  my  heels  and — and  I  never  gave  a 
thought  to  your  being  tired  out  with  that 
hateful  school, — oh,  to  think  that  my  daughter 
should  ever  have  been  a  board-school  mistress, 
not  one  remove  from  a  National  school,  and 
your  poor  father  a  clergyman  in  Holy  Orders." 

"  My  dear  mother,  do  explain  yourself,"  said 
Mary,  a  fearful  sense  of  coming  evil  gradually 
overspreading  her. 

"  Oh,  my  darling,"  cried  the  older  woman, 
"  it's  all  over  now — all  the  drudgery,  all  the 
pinching  and  the  nipping.  I've  said  little  or 
nothing  because  you  were  slaving  your  youth 


The  Dinner  of  Herbs  11 

away  in  that  horrid  degrading  school  but  now 
I  may  speak,  now  I  may  say  how  bitterly  and 
cruelly  I  have  felt  it  all,  the  humiliations,  the 
—the  "— 

"  Dear,  there  can  be  no  degradation  or 
humiliation  in  honest  work,"  said  Mary,  pa- 
tiently, and  yet  with  a  dignity  which  sat  be- 
comingly on  her  tired  young  face.  "  And  what 
do  you  mean  by  its  being  over?  Not  surely 
that  Captain  Con  way  wants  to  marry  me" 

"Yes — you.  And  oh,  my  darling,  it  has 
made  me  so  happy,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  cried. 
"  Almost  delirious  with  happiness." 

"  My  dear  mother,"  cried  Mary,  bolting  a 
piece  of  bread  and  butter  with  what  was  al- 
most a  convulsion.  "  You  can't  mean  that 
you  would  like  me  to  marry  Captain  Con  way  ?  " 

"  "Why  not  ?  "  asked  the  mother,  blankly. 

"  I  couldn't  do  it,"  declared  the  girl,  stoutly. 

"Couldn't  do  it!"    Mrs.  Hamilton's  voice 


52  Wedlock 

rose  almost  to  a  scream.  "Couldn't  do  it! 
Why,  dear  heaven,  surely  you  would  never 
dream  of  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence  by 
refusing  him ! " 

"  Certainly,  I  would." 

"  He  is  rich,"  cried  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"  He  is  old  enough  to  be  my  father,"  said 
Mary.  "  And  I  doubt  if  he  is  rich." 

"  Captain  of  one  of  the  largest  steamships 
afloat,"  protested  Mrs.  Hamilton.  "  He  is  ex- 
ceedingly well-off,  he  can  provide  for  you 
adequately.  He  has  an  excellent  position  " — 

"  I  don't — couldn't — never  could  love  him," 
Mary  burst  out. 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  you  can  respect  him," 
cried  the  mother. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  even  do  that 
much,"  Mary  returned.  Then  suddenly 
clasped  her  hands  together  and  looked  appeal- 
ingly  at  the  excited  woman  opposite  to  her. 


The  Dinner  of  Herbs  13 

"Oh,  mother,  don't  you  understand  why  I 
cannot  do  this  thing  ?  Have  you  been  so  un- 
happy in  our  little  home  that  you  want  to  sell 
me  to  the  first  bidder  ?  I've  been  so  contented 
in  working  for  you — has  it  all  been  for  noth- 
ing?" 

"  Working  for  me,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  exclaimed, 
indignantly.  "  Working  for  me  indeed  !  And 
what  have  /  done  all  these  years  ?  Look  at 
my  hands,  worked  to  the  bone — cooking, 
scrubbing,  sewing,  contriving,  making  my  own 
bits  of  clothes  and  never  a  place  to  show  them 
in  in  this  desolate  wilderness  of  bricks  and 
mortar!  No  one  to  associate  with,  living  a 
pensioner  on  your  bounty,  without  pleasures, 
interests  or  change  of  any  kind.  And  then  to 
have  your  work  thrown  in  my  teeth,  indeed." 

"  Oh,  mother ! " 

"It's  all  very  well  to  say  'Oh,  mother!' 
but  I'm  speaking  the  truth.  All  these  years  I 


14  Wedlock 

have  struggled  and  striven  for  you — and  now 
when  you  have  a  chance  of  letting  me  end  my 
days  in  peace,  you  turn  up  your  nose  at  a  man 
\vhom  any  woman  might  be  honored  by 
marrying. " 

"  You  married  for  love  yourself,"  said  Mary, 
in  a  very  low  voice. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  caught  up  the  words  and 
echoed  them  in  the  high  pitched,  querulous  ac- 
cents of  a  thoroughly  selfish  and  superficial 
person.  "Married  for  love,"  she  echoed, 
shrilly.  "  Yes,  and  what  did  love  ever  do  for 
me?  I  married  for  love,  married  on  eighty 
pounds  a  year,  drudged  on  it,  slaved,  toiled, 
almost  starved  on  it.  Don't  talk  to  me  about 
marrying  for  love,  Mary — love  in  a  cottage  is 
a  will-of-the-wisp  that  leads  many  people  astray 
and  your  poor  father  and  I  were  among  the 
number.  Was  it  natural,  right,  proper  that  he 
should  die  at  thirty-five,  a  worn-out,  pre- 


The  Dinner  of  Herbs  15 

maturely  old  man,  leaving  me  helpless,  home- 
less, penniless,  to  struggle  on  as  best  I  could,  to 
drag  you  up  as  best  I  could  ?  That  was  what 
marrying  for  love  did  for  him,  poor  fellow. 
He  never  would  own  it,  he  died  with  his  hand 
in  mine — his  last  words  *  The  Lord  will  pro- 
vide,' and  now  when  provision  has  come,  it  is 
only  to  be  rejected." 

Mary  Hamilton  sat  still  while  this  incon- 
sequent torrent  of  recollection  and  vexation 
poured  from  her  mother's  lips.  At  the  vision 
of  the  red-faced,  burly,  bluff  sailor  being  re- 
garded as  a  provision  sent  by  the  Lord  to  take 
her  from  an  independent  life  of  honest  work 
to  one  of  degrading  idleness,  she  almost 
laughed  aloud,  but  she  resolutely  choked  down 
the  inclination  and  spoke  quietly  and  reason- 
ably to  the  excited  Avoman  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table. 

"  Dear  mother,"  she  said,  gently,  "  cannot 


16  Wedlock 

you  for  my  sake  endure  this  life  a  little  longer  ? 
After  midsummer  we  shall  be  better  off. 
Even  now  we  can  well  afford  to  have  a  woman 
in  to  do  the  rougher  work — it  has  always  been 
for  you  to  decide  how  the  money  shall  be 
spent.  For  my  sake,  dear  ?  " 

"And  why  not  for  mine?"  asked  the 
mother,  fiercely.  "  Listen — he  has  laid  all  his 
plans  before  me.  You  will  have  a  charming 
house  and  garden,  a  couple  of  good  maidserv- 
ants, a  handsome  housekeeping  purse,  an  ample 
allowance  for  your  dress  and  pocket-money. 
There  will  always  be  room  for  me — I  am  to 
live  with  you — to  give  the-  benefit  of  my  ad- 
vice, my  experience  in  housekeeping  and  all 
such  things.  You  will  have  as  much  society 
as  you  care  to  take — there  will  be  no  anxiety, 
no  thinking  about  the  rent,  or  how  to  get 
seven  days'  dinners  out  of  a  certain  sum.  You 
will  have  " — 


The  Dinner  of  Herbs  17 

"  Oh,  don't,  mother,  please  don't,"  the  girl 
cried.  "  I  know  all  these  things  are  a  tempta- 
tion to  you — poor  dear,  it  must  be  to  you  just 
like  opening  a  prison  door  and  seeing  a  lovely 
view  over  which  you  may  walk  forever  on  one 
condition.  But  the  condition,  dear  mother, 
the  condition.  Think !  It  is  that  of  reaching 
the  fair  pathways  over  your  own  child's  body, 
oh,  worse,  worse,  over  her  very  soul.  It 
means  the  sacrifice  of  all  that  is  best  in  your 
child's  life,  the  giving  up  of  her  freedom,  her 
honor,  her  ambition,  of  all  her  better  self. 
Don't  ask  me  to  do  it,  dear,  pray,  pray  don't. 
I  will  work — oh,  how  I  will  work — how 
thankfully  and  gratefully  I  will  bring  you 
every  farthing  that  I  make,  so  that  you  may 
be  more  content,  less  straitened.  Mother  dear, 
speak  to  me !  For  my  father's  sake  say  that 
you  won't  urge  this  upon  me." 

But  the  words  of  appeal,  glowing,  passion- 


i8  Wedlock 

ate,  heart-full  as  they  were,  failed  to  touch  the 
shallow  nature  of  the  woman  who  in  her  day 
had  married  for  love  and  had  found  the  din- 
ner of  herbs  turn  to  dust  and  ashes  between 
her  teeth.  She  rested  her  head  dejectedly 
upon  her  hand  and  gave  several  long-drawn 
sighs  of  misery,  calculated  to  move  the  heart 
of  a  stone. 

"  Dear  mother,"  murmured  Mary  from  the 
other  side  of  the  table. 

But  Mrs.  Hamilton  shook  her  head  resolutely. 
"No,  Mary,  it's  no  use  your  saying  ' dear 
mother ! '  It's  worth  nothing — it  means  noth- 
ing. I  can't  make  you  marry  Captain  Con- 
way — indeed,  I've  no  wish  to  do  so.  I  can't 
make  you  see  what  is  best  for  you,  although 
you  might  trust  your  own  mother  to  give  you 
good  advice  on  such  a  subject.  I  can  do  noth- 
ing but  bear  my  disappointment  with  resigna- 
tion and  fortitude.  After  all,  it  is  only  one 


The  Dinner  of  Herbs  19 

more  bitter  pill  to  swallow,  one  more  drop  of 
bitterness  in  my  cup  of  humiliation  and  self- 
sacrifice.  I'll  say  nothing  more,  Mary,  only — 
only — don't  prate  to  me  about  love  and  devo- 
tion. I've  proved  the  value  of  both  to-day. 
And,  after  all  my  struggles  to  give  you  the 
best  of  education — it's  hard — it's  heartbreak- 
ing." 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  across  Mary  Ham- 
ilton's mind  of  certain  clerical  charities  which 
had  from  the  time  of  her  father's  death  pro- 
vided her  mother  with  the  wherewithal  of  living, 
of  the  great  institution  wherein  she  had  received 
her  education  free  of  cost  to  her  mother  and 
because  of  the  position  in  life  which  her  father 
had  occupied,  but  she  said  nothing;  she  felt 
that  it  would  be  useless. 

"  So  my  dream  ends,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
bitterly.  "  It  says  somewhere  in  the  Bible — 
'Her  children  shall  rise  up  and  call  her 


2o  Wedlock 

blessed.'  It's  a  fallacy,  nowadays  at  least,  for 
veneration  for  parents  has  gone  out  of  fashion." 

Mary  Hamilton  sat  back  in  her  chair  won- 
dering whether  it  would  be  best  to  let  the 
storm  pass  in  silence  or  not.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
got  up  from  her  place  and  went  blindly  to- 
ward the  door.  I  say  blindly  because  she  went 
stumblingly  and  groped  her  way  like  a  person 
whose  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  There  were, 
however,  no  tears  in  her  eyes  but  a  strange 
sightlessness,  as  if  she  had  suddenly  walked 
into  a  heavy  sea-fog.  Then  at  the  door  she 
stumbled  and  fell,  not  the  sharp  fall  of  a  per- 
son tripping  by  accident  but  the  huddled-up 
dropping  to  the  ground  of  one  unable  any 
longer  to  keep  her  feet. 

Mary  sprang  from  her  seat  with  a  cry. 
"  Mother — mother — you  are  ill,"  she  burst  out. 

The  answer  came  thick  and  indistinct. 
"  Dying !  Dying !  You  have — killed — me ! " 


The  Dinner  of  Herbs  21 

The  girl  tried  to  lift  the  prostrate  woman 
but  found  herself  powerless.  She  sank  upon 
her  knees  in  an  agony  of  apprehension. 

"No— no— mother,  don't  say  that.  Let  me 
help  you— only  try  to  get  up— I'll  do  anything 
to  please  you — mother — mother." 


CHAPTEE  II 

DONE  IN  A   MOMENT 

WHEN  Mary  Hamilton  found  that  her 
mother  had  slipped  into  utter  unconsciousness, 
she  ran  to  their  nearest  neighbors  and  begged 
them  to  come  in  and  aid  her.  So  her  mother 
was  with  no  little  difficulty  lifted  from  the 
ground  and  carried  up  to  her  bedroom,  and  a 
doctor  was  quickly  sent  for.  His  fiat  was 
given  without  the  smallest  hesitation.  "  It's  a 
stroke,"  he  said,  "  but  it  might  have  been  much 
worse ;  for  instance,  if  it  had  been  on  the  other 
side  it  would  probably  have  proved  fatal  al- 
most immediately.  As  it  is,  with  care,  your 
mother  will  probably  recover  and  be  quite  or 
very  nearly  herself  again." 

"With  care !     Mary  Hamilton's  heart  went 

down  to  zero  as  she  heard  the  two  little  simple 
22 


Done  in  a  Moment  23 

words  which  give  hope  to  some  anxious  watch- 
ers of  the  sick,  but  which  open  out  endless  pos- 
sibilities of  unattainable  needs  to  those  who 
are  poorly  placed  in  the  world.  In  her  case  it 
meant  having  an  experienced  person  to  tend 
her  mother  by  day  and  night  alike,  for  be  the 
circumstances  of  life  what  they  would,  her 
work  must  go  on  just  the  same.  With  the  best 
intentions  in  the  world  she  could  not  be  in  two 
places  at  once — yet — how  was  she  to  afford 
skilled  attendance  for  her  mother.  It  was  a 
terrible  question  to  answer. 

At  this  point  the  advantages  of  the  alliance 
which  the  sick  woman  had  been  pressing  upon 
her  daughter  came  prominently  into  view. 
During  the  course  of  the  evening  Captain 
Conway  arrived  eager  and  anxious  as  to  his 
answer,  only  to  be  met  with  the  mournful 
news  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  been  seized  with 
a  paralytic  stroke  and  was  still  unconscious. 


24  Wedlock 

His  first  words  were  a  suggestion.  "You 
will  want  a  nurse." 

"  I  shall  want  some  one  to  look  after  my 
mother  while  I  am  away  at  my  work,"  Mary 
admitted.  "For  to-night  Mrs.  Eobinson  has 
kindly  promised  to  stay  with  me — and  to- 
morrow I  must  find  some  nice,  respectable 
person  " — 

"  I  will  send  in  a  proper  nurse  at  once,"  said 
the  sailor,  speaking  in  rough  but  kindly  ac- 
cents. "  Skilled  nursing  is  half  the  battle  in 
such  cases  as  these.  I  never  did  believe  in 
makeshift  nursing,  it's  the  very — the  very 
mischief."  He  had  been  going  to  use  another 
word  but  changed  it  out  of  deference  to  Mary 
with  a  very  perceptible  effort  over  the  substi- 
tution. 

"  I  can't  let  you,"  began  Mary,  at  which  he 
put  up  his  hand  imperatively. 

"Now,  Miss  Mary,  none  of  that,  if  you 


Done  in  a  Moment  25 

please.  I'm  your  friend,  and  friends  are  al- 
lowed to  make  themselves  useful  to  one  an- 
other in  times  of  trouble  all  the  world  over. 
I'll  take  it  all  on  myself  and  will  account  to 
your  mother  for  the  liberty  I'm  taking  when 
she's  well  enough  to  discuss  such  things.  So 
now  I'll  be  off  and  will  send  in  a  suitable 
nurse  at  once.  Good-bye — God  bless  you,  my 
dear." 

He  roughly  pressed  her  hand  and  was  gone 
in  a  moment,  leaving  her  standing  looking 
desolately  after  him.  She  shuddered  as  she 
thought  of  him  as  her  possible,  nay  probable 
husband,  he  was  so  bluff  and  burly  and  griz- 
zled, so  loud  of  voice,  so  red  of  face,  so  dom- 
inant ;  he  jarred  upon  every  fibre  of  her  being. 
But  it  was  useless  to  fight  longer  against  fate, 
even  in  the  person  of  a  man  who  was  utterly 
and  entirely  distasteful  to  her.  She  had  strug- 
gled with  all  her  might  against  the  sacrifice  of 


26  Wedlock 

her  soul's  best  instincts  but  to  no  purpose,  the 
threads  were  drawing  closer  and  closer  around 
her  and  if  her  mother  recovered  and  still  de- 
manded the  complete  sacrifice  of  herself 
against  which  she  had  so  passionately  fought, 
she  had  given  her  word  and  must  carry  it 
through  to  the  very  end. 

Before  a  couple  of  hours  had  gone  by  a 
white-capped  nurse  in  dainty  uniform  had  ar- 
rived at  the  little  house  and  had  installed  her- 
self in  charge  of  the  case,  and  when  Mary  got 
home  from  her  work  the  following  afternoon, 
Mrs.  Hamilton  had  recovered  her  senses  again 
and  was  pronounced  to  be  vastly  improved. 

Her  first  mumbled  words  were  as  a  death- 
knell  to  Mary's  heart — "  You — promised,"  she 
said,  thickly. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have  not  forgotten,"  Mary  said, 
hurriedly.  "  Don't  think  of  that,  dear ;  only 
get  well  and  I  will  do  anything  you  like." 


Done  in  a  Moment  27 

The  sick  woman  gave  a  murmur  of  satisfac- 
tion and  closed  her  eyes  again.  Mary  turned 
away  and  went  to  the  window,  where  she 
stood  looking  out  trying  to  keep  herself  under 
control.  Her  face  was  white  and  set,  her 
hands  shaking  and  cold.  So  her  mother  had 
not  forgotten,  the  sacrifice  would  have  to  be 
made  and  she  must  at  no  distant  time  sell  her- 
self into  a  slavery  which  would  be  a  living 
horror.  And  this  was  the  end  of  all  her  toil, 
of  all  her  ambitions,  of  all  her  brilliant  hopes 
and  vivid  dreamings  !  Small  wonder  that  her 
heart  seemed  as  if  it  had  turned  to  water 
within  her,  that  her  soul  seemed  numb  and 
dead  as  if  she  had  lost  herself  in  a  deep  and 
treacherous  morass  from  which  she  could 
never  be  extricated,  try  and  struggle  as  she 
would. 

I  need  not  dwell  upon  this  part  of  Mary 
Hamilton's  story.  The  hot  and  dusty  summer 


28  Wedlock 

days  dragged  drearily  by,  each  one  that 
slipped  into  the  tale  that  is  fast  bringing  the 
inevitable  nearer  and  nearer.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
slowly  improved  in  health,  Mary  went  to 
and  fro  to  her  work,  the  white-capped  nurse 
remained  in  attendance  and  Captain  Conway 
hovered  around  the  little  household  like  a  good 
angel,  an  angel  with  a  red  weather-beaten 
face  and  with  a  very  large  circumference. 

The  end  came  all  too  soon.  He  spoke  to 
her  one  evening,  told  her  his  hopes  and  fears ; 
a  great  many  hopes  it  must  be  owned,  and  a 
very  few  fears  it  must  be  confessed.  And 
Mary  told  him  honestly  that  she  had  never 
thought  of  him  before  her  mother's  illness  as 
a  possible  husband,  told  him  that  she  had 
never  thought  of  marrying  him  or  any  one 
else,  thanked  him  with  tears  in  her  grey  eyes 
for  his  goodness  to  her  mother  and  promised 
that  if  he  would  not  expect  too  much  of  her, 


Done  in  a  Moment  29 

she  would  do  her  best  to  be  a  good  and  faith- 
ful wife  to  him. 

Captain  Con  way's  answer  was  characteristic 
of  the  man.  He  told  her  with  all  the  assur- 
ance and  confidence  of  an  Adonis  of  twenty 
years  his  junior  that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied 
with  her  promises,  that  he  would  teach  her  to 
love  him  when  once  she  was  really  his  own. 
Mary  shuddered  but  allowed  the  remark  to 
pass  in  silence  and,  if  the  whole  truth  be  told, 
let  an  inward  prayer  escape  her  heart  that 
some  thunderbolt  might  fall  and  strike  her 
before  that  terrible  day  dawned. 

Such  prayers,  however,  are  mostly  futile. 
Mary's  wedding-day  dawned  all  too  soon 
and  the  warning  "be  not  afraid  with  any 
amazement"  rang  out  over  the  heads  of  an 
ashen-pale  bride,  who  had  steadfastly  and 
resolutely  refused  to  allow  herself  to  be 
decked  in  bridal  attire,  a  rather  nervous  and 


30  Wedlock 

rubicund  bridegroom,  who  dropped  the  ring 
and  mumbled  his  vows  defiantly  after  the 
officiating  minister,  a  mahogany-faced  grooms- 
man and  a  frail,  elderly  lady  in  a  mauve  silk 
who  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  a  tall  young 
woman  in  nurse's  uniform. 

So  the  sacrifice  was  completed!  To  Mary 
Hamilton,  Mary  Conway  by  then,  it  passed 
like  a  hideous  dream,  only  there  was  no  awak- 
ening. 

"My  darling  child,"  cried  her  mother,  en- 
thusiastically. "  I  am  so  happy —  My  dear 
children." 

"  I  am  glad,  mother,"  Mary  whispered  back 
and  wondered  the  while  if  God  would  ever  for- 
give her  for  the  false  vows  she  had  plighted, 
the  outrage  she  had  done  to  herself,  for  being 
the  living  lie  that  she  Avas. 

And  then  began  a  life  which  was  an  hourly, 
daily  torture  and  martyrdom.  The  husband 


Done  in  a  Moment  31 

•was  quick  to  see  that  he  had  made  the  gravest 
of  all  mistakes,  that  he  had  bought  the  casket 
but  could  not  possess  himself  of  the  jewel 
within,  to  realize  that  his  wife  was  his,  but 
that  her  heart  was  miles  and  miles  away  and 
would  never  be  his,  even  though  he  were  to 
live  for  a  thousand  years.  He  was  quick  to 
learn  that  he  would  never  be  the  master  to 
teach  this  particular  pupil  to  conjugate  the 
verb  to  love  and  the  knowledge  coming  upon 
his  passionate  love  and  admiration  for  her, 
was  as  oil  poured  upon  a  fierce  flame. 

How  can  I  describe  those  few  weeks  which 
passed  between  the  marriage  and  Captain 
Conway's  first  departure  on  a  voyage  to  the 
other  side  of  the  world  ?  They  were  hideous ! 
Mary,  who  had  been  awakened  also,  was  pos- 
sessed of  only  one  desire — to  hide  the  truth 
from  the  mother  for  whose  sake  she  had  sold 
herself,  to  hide  from  her  the  knowledge  which 


32  Wedlock 

had  come  to  her  all  too  surely,  that  the  genial, 
bluff,  jovial  sailor,  with  his  frank,  hearty  ways 
and  his  open-handed  generosity,  was  in  reality 
of  a  coarse  and  calculating  nature,  which  had 
taken  count  of  every  farthing  that  he  had  ex- 
pended and  who  looked  to  have  payment  and 
interest  for  every  single  coin ;  to  hide  from  her 
that  his  geniality  too  often  meant  drink  and 
that  his  frank  bluifness  was  merely  the  cover 
for  a  vindictive  and  passionate  temper.  To 
hide  from  her,  in  short,  all  that  he  really  and 
truly  was. 

It  was  not  until  within  a  few  days  of  the 
time  fixed  for  the  sailing  of  Captain  Conway's 
ship  that  there  was  actually  any  open  disa- 
greement between  them  and  even  then  the 
full  measure  of  her  humiliation  and  misery 
came  upon  her  like  a  thunderclap.  It  hap- 
pened that  Captain  Conway  had  been  explain- 
ing to  her  how  she  must  manage  about  money 


Done  in  a  Moment  33 

during  his  absence.  "The  rent  is  paid,"  he 
said.  "  And  you  can  draw  ten  pounds  a  week 
which  ought  to  cover  the  bare  expenses.  If 
you  fall  short  at  the  end  of  the  month  when 
the  wages  are  due —  Are  you  listening 
Mary  ?  "  he  broke  off  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"Yes,  Edward,  of  course  I  am  listening," 
said  Mary  with  a  violent  start. 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  to  look  like  that 
for  ?  Do  you  want  to  make  me  think  you're 
pining  because  I  am  going?  Bah!  You're 
enough  to  sicken  a  man,  you  white-faced  cat." 

The  girl's  first  instinct  was  to  start  to  her 
feet,  her  fingers  almost  without  her  own  will 
clenched  themselves  together,  her  cheeks  were 
as  red  as  peonies  until,  in  her  anger  at  such  an 
insult,  they  faded  to  the  paleness  of  death. 
Then  she  remembered  her  mother,  the  frail, 
weak,  feeble  soul  who  persisted  in  calling 
Captain  Conway  her  dear  boy,  and  in  attribut- 


34  Wedlock 

ing  to  him  every  noble  and  generous  attribute 
that  could  by  any  chance  be  found  in  the 
character  of  any  man,  and  her  instinct  was  to 
hide  it,  to  smooth  things  over,  to — to  go  on 
living  the  lie  as  she  had  begun. 

"  Edward,  don't  say  that,"  she  began,  nerv- 
ously. "  You  will  frighten  my  mother." 

"  And  if  I  do  ! "  he  cried,  roughly.  "  It's 
always  mother  here,  mother  there.  What  do 
I  care  whether  she's  frightened  or  not  ?  " 

"You  frighten  me,"  Mary  gasped,  and  in 
truth  she  was  shaking  in  every  limb,  shaking 
like  an  aspen  leaf  in  a  storm. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  It's  a  relief  to  find  I 
can  make  you  feel  something.  What  did  you 
marry  me  for  ?  " 

"  You  wanted  me  to  marry  you,"  she  said, 
unsteadily. 

"  I  wanted  you !  I — I —  Yes,  and  you  laid 
yourself  out  to  please  me  " — 


Done  in  a  Moment  35 

"  My  God,  no  1 "  she  cried,  sharply,  forget- 
ting for  a  moment  her  policy  of  conciliation. 
And  then — I  don't  like  to  write  it — I  don't 
like  to  think  of  it — then  there  was  a  blow — a 
fall — and  dead  silence  only  broken  by  the 
deep-drawn,  gasping  sobs  of  an  outraged  and 
broken-hearted  woman. 

For  a  moment  he  said  nothing.  Then  he 
seemed  to  pull  himself  together  and  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  help  her.  "  I  didn't  mean  to 
do  that,"  he  said,  shamefacedly.  "I  ought 
not  to  have  done  it.  You  drew  it  on  your- 
self, Mary,  but  I'm  sorry.  Kiss  me  and  be 
friends." 

She  put  his  hand  aside  and  rose  to  her  feet 
without  aid  ;  and  there  they  stood  facing  each 
other,  he  flushed  and  ashamed,  she  with  the 
mark  of  his  hand  upon  her  face. 

"  You  struck  me,"  she  said,  at  last.  Her 
whole  face  and  being  were  changed.  From  a 


36  Wedlock 

passive  martyr,  she  had  become  an  accusing 
spirit.  "  You — struck — me  !  "  The  words 
hissed  out  like  whips  cutting  through  the  air. 
The  man  shrank  a  little  as  he  heard. 

"  I  forgot  myself,"  he  muttered,  sullenly. 
"  I  admit  it.  I  want  to  be  friends." 

The  girl's  grey  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him 
and  seemed  to  look  into  his  very  soul.  "  You 
told  me  you  would  teach  me  to  love  you,"  she 
said,  with  intense  scorn.  "  Your  way  is  rough 
and  ready.  I  congratulate  you  upon  your 
success." 

"Mary,"  he  burst  out.  "You  never  did 
care — you've  cheated  me  " — 

"  Care — If  "  she  echoed.  "  You  are  strong 
for  a  man — I  am  not  even  strong  for  a  girl, 
for  all  my  life  has  been  passed  in  sitting  at  a 
desk.  You  may  kill  me  if  you  like.  I  dare 
say  you  will  and  I  shall  not  mind,  for  at  least, 
it  will  take  me  out  of  this ;  but  at  any  rate  I 


Done  in  a  Moment  37 

will  tell  you  one  thing.  I  have  hated  myself 
for  not  caring.  I  have  never  ceased  to  re- 
proach myself  for  having  loathed  you. — Now, 
with  all  my  heart,  I  thank  God  for  it." 


CHAPTER  III 

HER  LAST  WORD 

WHEN  Mary  Con  way  uttered  those  scathing 
words — "  I  have  never  ceased  to  reproach  my- 
self for  having  loathed  you. — Now,  with  all 
my  heart,  I  thank  God  for  it,"  they  were  fol- 
lowed by  a  long,  dead  silence.  She,  slight  and 
frail  and  ashen-white,  stood  boldly  fronting 
him,  her  eyes  filled  with  intensest  scorn  and 
showing  no  shred  of  the  fear  with  which  her 
heart  was  quaking, — he,  divided  between  rage 
and  astonishment  just  touched  with  shame 
that  he  should  have  raised  his  hand  to  a 
woman  and  that  woman  his  young  wife.  So 
they  stood  until  at  last  he  found  words  with 
which  to  speak. 

"  So  you  loathe  me,  do  you  ?" 

An  older  or  a  wiser  woman  might  have 

38 


Her  Last  Word  39 

given  a  softer  answer  than  leaped  to  Mary 
Con  way's  lips  in  reply.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
harshly.  "Only  loathing  is  too  mild  a 
word." 

"But  you  married  me — you  were  willing 
enough  to  marry  me,"  he  said,  gnawing  at  his 
under  lip  viciously. 

"  "Willing — never !  "  she  flashed  out.  "  I 
married  you,  it  is  true,  with  feelings  of  grati- 
tude, with  a  desire  to  do  my  best  to  repay  you 
for  the  money  you  had  laid  out,  with  a  belief 
that  you  were  kind  and  good,  if  not  the  lover 
of  my  heart  nor  the  husband  of  my  imagina- 
tion. I  have  learned  since  that  there  was  no 
need  of  gratitude  from  me  to  you,  that  there 
was  no  kindness  or  goodness  in  the  help  you 
gave  during  my  mother's  illness,  that  every 
day  the  nurse  remained,  every  drop  of  wine 
my  mother  drank,  every  strawberry  she  ate 
were  all  entered  into  an  account  which  I  was 


40 


Wedlock 


to  pay  one  day  with  nay  very  heart's  blood. — 
Well,  you  have  had  your  pound  of  flesh,  you 
have  bought  your  wife,  and  the  bargain  is 
complete,  the  debt  all  paid.  To-day  you  have 
broken  every  bond,  every  link,  every  chain  be- 
tween us.  I  bear  your  name,  that's  all." 

"  Is  that  your  last  word,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Yes — my  last  word.  No,  I  am  not  afraid 
of  you.  My  poor  little  frail  body  is  afraid, 
horribly,  desperately  afraid  of  you — but  my 
heart  and  my  soul  and  all  that's  best  of  me — 
never — never — never." 

"  You'll  be  glad  when  I'm  gone  ?  " 

"Thankful." 

"  You'll  never  remember  anything  of  what  I 
did  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  always  remember  you  as  the  man 
who  struck  me." 

"  You'd  like  to  be  free  of  me  ?  " 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  more  significant 


Her  Last  Word  41 

than  words.  He  laughed  aloud,  a  laugh  void 
of  merriment,  such  as  one  might  hear  from 
the  friends  in  hell. 

"  You'd  like  me  to  provide  for  you  perhaps  ? 
To  make  you  a  suitable  allowance  and  clear 
out  myself,  eh  ?  To  leave  you  and  your  old 
mother  " — 

"Leave  my  mother  out  of  it,"  she  cried, 
fiercely. 

"  Oh,  I've  no  wish  to  say  anything  against 
her,"  he  retorted.  "To  do  her  full  justice, 
she's  always  been  appreciative  enough  of  me, 
a  thundering  deal  more  so  than  you  have. 
Still  she's  there.  She's  got  to  be  reckoned 
with,  to  be  provided  for,  and  you'd  like  to  see 
her  end  her  days  in  comfort." 

"  I  was  satisfied  enough  with  my  life  before 
you  came  and  made  her  dissatisfied  with  the 
provision  that  I  was  able  to  make  for  her. 
You  took  away  my  living — it  is  but  right  that 


42  Wedlock 

you  should  provide  for  both.  You  did  noth- 
ing with  your  eyes  shut." 

"Nor  you.  Well — I  do  provide  for  you 
both — I  shall  continue  to  do  so.  But  there's  a 
side  to  my  part  of  the  bargain.  I  didn't  look 
to  provide  for  a  wife,  to  say  nothing  of  her 
mother,  and  to  keep  away  from  her,  and  I 
won't  do  it.  You've  no  witness  that  I  struck 
you — and  it  wo  aldn't  sound  a  likely  story  any- 
how. I'll  go  away  to-day  instead  of  Monday, 
for  I'm  sore  and  angry  and  not  master  of  my- 
self and  neither  are  you.  But  I  shall  come 
back  again.  I  shall  come  home  again  and 
you'll  receive  me  as  if  nothing  had  happened 
between  us.  I'm  sorry  I  forgot  myself  just 
now  and  for  that  reason,  I'll  give  you  till  I 
come  home  again  to  pull  yourself  together  in 
and  after  that,  we  will  begin  again  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened." 

"  I  shall  never  begin  again  as  if  nothing  had 


Her  Last  Word  43 

happened,"  she  exclaimed,  passionately.  "  How 
could  I  ?  You  struck  me.  So  long  as  you 
were  only  old  and  rough  and — and — distaste- 
ful to  me,  I  endured  you.  But  you  have  gone 
beyond  " — 

"  You  took  me  for  better  or  worse,"  he  in- 
terrupted. 

"  I  know  it ;  but  I  did  not  bargain  for  its 
being  all  for  worse." 

"  "We'll  see  about  that,"  he  said  with  a  sneer. 
"It's  easy  work  talking  of  what  one  will  or 
one  won't  do.  You've  left  yourself  in  a  cleft 
stick,  my  fine  little  lady  wife,  and  I  think 
when  you  come  to  facing  the  world  from  the 
very  bottom  of  the  ladder,  with  your  invalid 
mother  who  has  got  used  to  a  comfortable  way 
of  living,  you'll  find  it  harder  than  you  think 
for.  It's  one  thing  to  talk  large  about  break- 
ing loose  and  it's  another  thing  to  do  it  with 
your  handicap  tied  round  your  neck.  Any 


44 


Wedlock 


way,  that's  my  last  word.  I've  made  up  my 
mind.  It's  a  case  of  my  will  giving  way  to 
yours,  or  yours  breaking  down  to  mine.  I 
don't  intend  if  there's  any  breaking  down  that 
it  shall  be  on  my  side." 

He  did  not  give  her  time  to  reply  but  went 
out  of  the  room  with  a  great  bustle  and  the 
next  moment  she  heard  him  giving  directions 
to  the  servants  about  his  baggage.  A  few 
minutes  afterward  she  heard  him  go  out  of  the 
house,  and  then  came  the  sound  of  her  mother's 
voice  calling  to  her. 

"  Mary,  Mary,  where  are  you  ?  " 
"  Here,  mother.     Do  you  want  anything  ?  " 
She  ran  down  into  the  bright  little  entrance- 
hall  to  find  her  mother,  who  still  dragged  one 
leg  a  little,  holding  on  to  the  door-post  of  the 
drawing-room. 

"  My  poor  child,  my  poor  darling  child,  what 
terrible  news,"  she  exclaimed.  She  was 


Her  Last  Word  45 

smartly  and  daintily  dressed  and  looked  very 
pretty  as  she  stood  there. 

"  What  terrible  news  ?  "  asked  Mary.  For 
a  moment  her  heart  stood  still,  for  she  thought 
that  her  husband  had  blurted  out  all  the  truth 
in  his  anger. 

"What  news?"  echoed  Mrs.  Hamilton. 
"  Why,  that  dear  Edward  has  had  a  telegram 
which  will  take  him  away  from  us  to-day  in- 
stead of  next  week.  Try  to  bear  up,  my  poor 
darling." 

"  Yes,  I  will  try,  mother,"  said  Mary,  feel- 
ing almost  ready  to  let  herself  go  off  into 
wild  shrieks  of  hysterical  laughter  at  the  irony 
of  the  situation. 

"In  the  first  flush  of  your  married  happi- 
ness, too,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  mournfully,  as 
she  dragged  slowly  back  again  to  her  seat  by 
the  window.  "  Of  course  duty  is  duty,  as  I 
said  to  the  dear  fellow." 


46  Wedlock 

"And  what  did  he  say  to  that?"  Mary 
asked  the  question  involuntarily. 

"  Oh,  he  is  always  so  full  of  his  quaint,  bluff 
humor,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  smiling  ten- 
derly at  the  recollection.  " '  It's  no  use  keep- 
ing a  mill  to  turn,  mother,'  he  said  in  his 
hearty  way — '  unless  one  finds  grist  to  put  in 
it.'  Dear  fellow." 

Mary  sat  down  at  the  other  side  of  the  win- 
dow and  got  out  her  embroidery  from  the 
smart  workbasket.  Mrs.  Hamilton  looked  at 
her  with  astonished  eyes,  first  at  her  and  then 
at  the  bit  of  dainty  work  in  her  hands. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  help  Mouncey  ?  "  she 
asked.  It  was  a  point  of  honor  with  Mrs. 
Hamilton  that  Mary's  maids  should  be  called 
by  their  surnames,  although  both  of  them  de- 
tested the  custom. 

"No,  mother— Mouncey  has  all  instructions 
from  Edward." 


Her  Last  Word  47 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Hamilton  kept  silence, 
but  at  last  she  burst  out  impulsively.  "  You 
are  very  strange,  Mary,"  she  cried.  "When 
your  poor  father  was  going  away,  I  always 
arranged  every  little  detail  for  him  with  my 
own  hands — but  you  sit  there  as  coldly  as  if 
you  had  been  married  twenty  years  instead  of 
this  being  your  first  parting  with  your  hus- 
band, little  more  than  a  bridegroom." 

It  must  be  owned  that  the  girl  felt  a  thrill 
of  disgust  go  through  her  at  her  mother's 
words.  A  wild  prayer  half  formed  itself  in 
her  heart  that  this  first  parting  might  be  the 
last  and  an  alluring  picture  of  a  quiet  grave 
with  the  inscription  "  Mary  Conway,  aged  23  " 
on  the  headstone,  slipped  sweetly  through  her 
mind.  She  even  smiled,  heart-sick  as  she  was, 
as  she  answered  her  mother's  plaintive  and 
wondering  words. 

"  Ah,  but  you  see  it  was  different  with  you, 


48  Wedlock 

mother,  you  married  for  love.  Edward 
doesn't  keep  me  to  pack  his  things  for  him. 
Mouncey  will  do  it  better  than  I." 

"  It  is  most  strange,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
"  but,  of  course,  we  express  our  feelings  so  dif- 
ferently. You  are  so  like  your  poor  father, 
and  not  in  the  least  like  me.  He  was  always 
so  quiet  and  reserved — just  as  you  are." 

"  One  cannot  help  one's  nature,"  said  Mary, 
trying  to  speak  with  indifference.  "  And,  of 
course,  we  have  known  all  along  that  Edward 
would  have  to  be  away  a  good  deal ;  a  few 
days  more  or  less  makes  little  difference." 

"  Ah  I  well,  it  is  all  for  the  best  that  you  do 
take  things  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  dis- 
tinct reproach  in  her  tones.  "  I  should  never 
have  done  for  a  sailor's  wife — I  should  have 
broken  my  heart  every  time  he  went  away." 

"  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb," 
said  Mary. 


Her  Last  Word 


49 


She  felt  that  the  remark  was  flippant,  even 
unfeeling,  and  yet  the  effort  which  she  was 
putting  upon  herself  was  so  great  that  it  was 
only  by  the  most  severe  determination  that 
she  was  able  to  keep  herself  calm.  The  thrill 
of  compunction  was,  however,  thrown  away, 
for  Mrs.  Hamilton's  shallow  mind  was  not 
capable  of  taking  in  two  ideas  at  the  same 
time. 

"  Ah,  yes,  truer  words  were  never  spoken," 
she  remarked.  "I  often  wonder  what  I 
should  have  done  if  Providence  had  not  sent 
dear  Edward  our  way.  I  shudder  to  think 
what  my  life  would  have  been,  ill  and  alone 
all  day,  in  that  miserable  little  house,  in  that 
dreary,  sordid  neighborhood." 

"  I  should  have  made  other  arrangements. 
I  should  have  done  my  best,"  said  Mary,  a  lit- 
tle indignantly. 

"Yes,  darling  child,  I  know  you  would," 


50  Wedlock 

Mrs.  Hamilton  returned,  in  an  indulgent  tone, 
as  one  might  speak  to  a  feeble  person  who 
had  tried  to  stem  the  river  of  life  and  had 
failed  utterly.  "But  mercifully — and  truly 
the  ways  of  Providence  are  wonderful,  I  feel 
it  more  and  more  every  day  that  I  live — 
mercifully  God  did  think  fit  to  temper  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb — or  the  shorn  sheep 
as  one  might  say  in  my  case.  Mary,  what 
have  you  done  to  your  face  ?  "  She  asked  the 
last  question  in  a  totally  different  voice — Mrs. 
Hamilton  was  always  two  people  at  one  and 
the  same  time,  the  artificial  fine  lady  who  was 
given  to  preaching  little  sermonettes  all  in 
platitudes,  and  the  shallow,  self-centred  person 
with  a  keen  eye  to  the  main  chance  of  num- 
ber one. 

Mary  started  at  the  direct  question.  She 
was  accustomed  to  hearing  her  mother  babble 
aimlessly  on  from  subject  to  subject,  but  a 


Her  Last  Word  51 

change  of  tone  always  called  for  attention. 
"  My  face,"  she  said,  slowly  ^  putting  up  her 
hand  to  the  red  mark — "  oh — it  got  knocked." 

For  half  a  word  she  would  have  burst  out 
with  the  whole  story,  but  in  Ler  sudden  upward 
glance  she  had  noted  Mrs.  Hamilton's  serene, 
well-satisfied  expression,  the  look  of  care  and 
attention  which  pervaded  her  whole  person, 
her  smart  gown,  her  dainty  little  coquettish 
cap.  All  these  things  meant  money,  all  these 
little  details  were  as  the  breath  of  life  to  the 
shallow  and  narrow  soul  who  had  never  before 
known  what  it  was  to  revel  in  a  fairly  good 
income.  As  the  conviction  came  home  to  her, 
Mary's  heart  failed  or  her  better  nature  pre- 
vailed, so  that  she  kept  the  truth  to  herself. 

" — it  got  knocked,"  she  said,  evasively, 
and  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  satisfied.  She  went 
into  a  long  dissertation  of  how  she  once  had 
run  against  a  closet  door  in  the  dark  and  of 


52  Wedlock 

how  "your  poor  father"  said  that  her  face 
looked  exactly  as  if  some  one  had  struck  her ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  this  Mary  suddenly  re- 
membered something  that  would  carry  her  up- 
stairs, and  once  in  the  shelter  of  her  own  room, 
she  fought  with  her  pain  and  misery,  ay,  as 
desperately  as  any  martyr  fought  with  beasts 
of  old  in  the  amphitheatre  of  cruel  Home. 

It  was  hard  work,  hard  work,  this  martyrdom 
of  hers,  a  voluntary  sacrifice  for  a  mother  in- 
capable of  appreciating  a  nature  finer  than 
her  own ;  it  was  nobility  thrown  away,  con- 
sideration for  one  who  never  considered  any 
one  but  herself.  Some  glimmering — and  it 
was  only  a  glimmering,  for  our  knowledge  of 
natures  with  which  we  have  grown  up,  comes 
but  slowly  and  tremblingly — came  to  her 
when  she  had  calmed  herself  and  forced  her- 
self to  go  down  again  to  the  pretty  drawing- 
room  which  was  part  of  her  prison. 


Her  Last  Word  53 

"Frozen,  poor  darling,"  she  heard  her 
mother  say — "quite  frozen.  Be  very  tender 
with  her,  dear  boy,  she  has  a  highly  sensitive 
nature  and  feels  things  terribly.  Those  who 
can  sob  and  cry,  get  off  very  easily  in  this 
life,  my  dear  Edward — but  it  is  the  quiet,  un- 
demonstrative ones  who  feel.  My  poor  darl- 
ing, my  heart  aches  for  her." 


CHAPTER  IT 

PAETED 

THE  actual  parting  between  Captain  Conway 
and  Mary  was  got  over  more  easily  than  she 
had  hoped.  She  had  been  afraid  that  Mrs. 
Hamilton  would  be  present  to  the  last  moment 
and  that  she  would  inevitably  discover  at 
least  something  of  the  true  state  of  affairs 
between  them.  Fortunately,  however,  Mrs. 
Hamilton  was  dominated  by  a  keen  desire  to 
spare  herself  any  needless  excitement,  so  that 
she  ensconced  herself  in  her  favorite  chair  in 
the  drawing-room  window  and  bade  farewell 
to  her  son-in-law  in  that  place. 

"Go  to  the  gate  to  see  the  last  of  the 
master,"  she  said  to  the  two  servants.  "  Mrs. 

Conway  is  feeling  the  parting  terribly  and  it 
64 


Parted  55 

will  be  less  hard  for  her  if  she  has  no  one  to 
look  on." 

The  two  girls  were  not  a  little  sceptical  as 
to  the  depth  of  their  young  mistress'  woe,  but 
they  fell  in  with  cheerful  obedience  to  the 
wishes  of  "  Missis's  mother "  and  went  off  to 
the  front  gate  leaving  the  husband  and  wife 
to  part  without  on-lookers. 

What  actually  took  place  was  this.  Captain 
Conway  went  in  to  the  drawing-room  to  say 
good-bye  to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  enduring  her  tears 
and  clinging  embraces  like  a  true  Briton. 
"  I'll  take  care  of  her,  dear  boy,"  she  whispered, 
brokenly.  "  My  poor,  poor  child." 

"Good-bye,  mother,"  he  said,  briefly.  "I 
haven't  a  minute  to  spare.  Good-bye.  Take 
care  of  yourself,"  and  then  he  went  out  of  the 
room  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

""Well,  good-bye,  Mary,"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand  to  his  wife. 


56  Wedlock 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Mary,  without  looking  at 
him. 

"  You  haven't  changed  your  mind  yet  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

For  a  moment  he  said  nothing.  "  You  little 
devil,"  he  hissed  at  last  between  his  teeth — 
"  you're  prettier  and  more  fetching  than  ever." 
He  caught  hold  of  her  and  held  her  closely  to 
him.  "  Do  you  think  you  are  going  to  keep 
me  at  arm's  length  forever  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
I  love  you  ten  thousand  times  more  for  being 
such  a  little  devil  as  you  are.  All  the  other 
women  I've  ever  known  are  as  tame  as  new 
milk  compared  to  you.  There's  no  mistake 
about  your  being  like  strong  drink  to  a  man. 
You'll  kiss  me  before  I  go  ?  " 

"  Not  I ! " 

"  No !  Well,  I'll  wait  for  that.  Meantime 
you're  here,  my  lady-bird,  and  I'll  have  a 


Parted  57 

few  kisses  to  remember  you  by  before  we 
part." 

"No— no." 

"  Yes — yes,"  he  persisted,  and  being  like  a 
frail  reed  in  the  hands  of  a  giant,  she  could 
not  prevent  him  from  covering  her  face  with 
kisses. 

He  set  her  free  as  suddenly  as  he  had  caught 
her  and  turning  went  out  of  the  house  and 
away  down  the  garden-path  without  once 
again  looking  at  her.  Mary,  as  soon  as  she 
was  free,  fled  to  her  own  room  and  locked 
herself  into  that  sanctuary.  Her  first  act  was 
to  run  to  the  dressing-glass  and  to  look  at  her- 
self, and  somehow  the  sight  of  her  scarlet  face 
and  blazing  eyes  but  served  to  fan  the  fierce 
flame  of  bitter  resentment  which  was  burning 
so  passionately  in  her  heart.  "  How  dared  he, 
how  dared  he  ? "  she  burst  out.  "  Does  he 
think  I  am  a  toy  to  be  flung  down  one  minute 


58  Wedlock 

and  played  with  the  next?  Oh,  how  dared 
he?" 

She  was  quivering  with  rage  but  there  was 
no  suspicion  of  tears  about  her  eyes;  out- 
raged pride,  anger,  womanly  fury  possessed 
her,  but  grief  had  no  place  in  that  tumult  of 
emotions.  She  felt  more  deeply  insulted  than 
if  some  strange  man  had  seized  her  in  the 
street  and  had  deliberately  kissed  her  without 
so  much  as  a  with  your  leave  or  a  by  your 
leave.  Such  a  proceeding  her  thoughts  might 
have  put  down  to  a  dozen  motives,  admiration, 
daring,  or  a  wager ;  but  to  think  that  the  man 
who  only  that  morning  had  raised  his  hand 
and  struck  her  to  the  floor,  to  think  that  he 
had  dared  to  force  his  loathsome  kisses  upon 
her  and  in  sight  of  her  absolute  refusal,  it 
was  horrible — it  was  an  outrage,  no  more,  no 
less. 

She  was  still  raging  when  the  bell  rang  in 


Parted  59 

the  hall  and  after  a  minute  or  so  Mouncey 
came  up  and  told  her  that  tea  was  served  in 
the  drawing-room.  With  the  best  intentions 
in  the  world,  and  believing  thoroughly  in  a 
cup  of  tea  as  a  universal  panacea  for  every 
woe,  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  ordered  the  small 
repast  to  be  served  a  full  half-hour  earlier 
than  usual,  and  when  Mary,  still  flushed  and 
full  of  ire,  came  down,  she  entered  into  a 
voluble  explanation  of  her  reasons  for  so 
doing. 

"Come,  my  darling,  a  cup  of  tea  will  do 
you  all  the  good  in  the  world.  I  suggested  to 
Mouncey  that  she  should  let  us  have  it  at  once. 
There  are  little  hot  buns,  dear  child. — Come, 
try  to  eat  some,  for  fretting  will  not  bring  our 
dear  boy  home  one  day  earlier." 

A  reply  rose  to  the  tip  of  Mary's  tongue, 
one  which  would  have  relieved  her  mother's 
mind  forever  as  to  the  likelihood  of  her  fret- 


60  Wedlock 

ting;  she  choked  it  back,  however,  and  sat 
down  before  the  tea-table.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
looked  at  her  furtively. 

"Evidently  she  is  bottling  it  all  up,  poor 
darling ;  there's  not  a  sign  of  a  tear.  Such  an 
intense  yet  reserved  nature.  My  poor,  poor 
girl ! "  and  then  Mrs.  Hamilton  helped  herself 
to  a  little  hot  bun  with  a  virtuous  air  as  one 
who  is  conscious  of  having  done  her  whole 
duty  in  every  relation  of  life. 

From  that  moment  the  household  went  on 
with  the  regularity  of  clockwork  and  in  all 
respects  as  if  no  absent  master  was  in  exist- 
ence. Mrs.  Hamilton  assiduously  studied  the 
daily  papers  for  news  of  the  Arikkama,  and 
she  babbled  from  time  to  time  of  "  our  dear 
boy."  After  several  days  she,  however,  gave 
up  even  that  much  and  as  Mary  did  not  di- 
vulge the  contents  of  several  letters  which  she 
received  from  her  husband,  Mrs.  Hamilton 


Parted  61 

was  positively  afraid  to  question  her  on  the 
subject  but  contented  herself  with  seeing  that 
extra  good  things  were  provided  for  Mary's 
meals. 

"  Yes — see  that  there  are  little  buns,  Moun- 
cey,"  she  said  each  morning.  "  And  tell  Fos- 
ter to  make  them  very  hot  and  with  plenty  of 
butter.  What  would  Mrs.  Con  way  like  for  a 
sweet  ? — "Well,  let  me  see,  she  used  to  love  a 
trifle  with  almonds,  ratafias  and  strawberry 
jam.  You  might  tell  Foster  to  make  a  nice 
little  dish  of  trifle  and  perhaps  mushrooms  on 
toast  for  afterward.  "We  must  take  care  to 
keep  Mrs.  Conway's  strength  up.  She  is  feel- 
ing the  parting  terribly." 

"Which" — commented  Julia  Mouncey  as 
she  repeated  the  conversation  to  the  neat  cook 
in  the  kitchen — "  which  between  you  and  me, 
Alice,  I'm  more  than  doubtful  about.  It's  my 
opinion  that  missis  married  master  out  of  con- 


62  Wedlock 

sideration  for  her  ma.  'Tain't  likely  a  grizzled, 
gruff,  unreasonable  beast  such  as  'im's  going  to 
break  any  young  girl's  'eart  when  he  goes 
away." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  but  what  you're  right, 
Julia,"  returned  Foster,  wisely. 

Meantime  in  Mary's  mind  only  a  huge  sense 
of  relief  from  an  obnoxious  presence  dominated 
every  other  feeling.  She  heard  her  mother's 
remarks  about  "  our  dear  boy  "  it  is  true,  but 
she  simply  endured  them  as  so  much  babble 
which  it  would  be  useless  to  answer.  Her  one 
idea  was  to  think  out  some  plan  by  which  she 
could  be  rendered  free  of  her  husband's  purse 
at  the  end  of  the  time  of  his  absence.  She  had 
fully  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  never 
under  any  circumstances  live  with  him  again. 
She  told  herself  that  it  was  no  part  of  a  wife's 
duties  to  live  with  a  man  who  had  used  per- 
sonal violence  toward  her ;  she  went  over  the 


Parted  63 

situation  many  times  in  her  own  mind,  and  she 
had  deliberately  come  to  the  conclusion  that  in 
striking  her  to  the  ground,  Captain  Conway 
had  forfeited  all  further  right  to  her  consider- 
ation. 

"  I  knew,"  her  thoughts  ran,  "  that  he  was 
elderly,  or  at  least  of  advanced  middle  age,  that 
he  was  rough  and  plain  in  ways  and  manners, 
but  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  brute,  an  un- 
mitigated brute.  If  I  had  known  it,  even  for 
my  mother's  sake  I  could  not  and  would  not 
have  married  him.  Now  I  feel  I  am  perfectly 
justified  in  carving  out  the  rest  of  my  own  life 
independently  of  him." 

But  though  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  say  that 
one  will  carve  out  a  life  for  oneself,  it  is  an- 
other thing  to  do  it.  It  is  one  thing  to  declare 
for  independence ;  it  is  another  thing  to  free 
oneself  from  a  dependent  position.  And  when 
Mary  Conway  came  to  weigh  herself  in  the 


64  Wedlock 

balance  against  fate,  she  found  that  she  was 
not  able  to  press  down  her  side  of  the  scales  so 
much  as  a  jot. 

Her  own  career  in  which  she  had  been  do- 
ing so  well  at  the  time  of  her  marriage  was  ir- 
revocably closed  to  her,  even  had  she  been 
willing  to  begin  again  at  the  lowest  rung  of 
the  ladder,  and  no  other  one  seemed  to  be 
open  to  her.  She  thought  of  many  ways  of 
earning  a  living,  but  the  very  first  question 
which  common  sense  put  to  her  always  brought 
her  up  sharp  like  a  bird  tied  by  the  leg  which, 
when  it  would  flutter  away,  is  brought  up 
sharply  to  a  standstill  by  the  string  that  ties 
it.  The  question  was  "What  do  you  know 
about  it  ? "  the  answer  was  always  the  same 
and  replied  with  uncomprising  curtness — 
"Nothing  I " 

She  gave  more  than  a  thought  to  going  on 
the  stage — always  a  woman's  first  instinct  in 


Parted  65 

times  of  stress ;  but  when  she  heard  of  there 
being  eleven  hundred  names  on  the  books  of 
one  theatre  and  fifteen  hundred  on  the  promise- 
list  of  another,  she  was  discouraged  from  any 
hopes  of  success  in  that  direction.  She  thought 
of  trying  literature  and  she  did  write  a  little 
story  which  she  smiled  and  cried  over  and 
copied  out  many  times  and  loved  dearly.  But 
she  sent  her  bantling  out  into  the  hard  world 
and  she  never  saw  or  heard  of  it  again  I  She 
wondered  whether  she  could  start  a  better-class 
school  for  small  children — but  again,  although 
she  felt  herself  competent  enough  to  teach, 
common  sense  stepped  in  and  asked  "  How  are 
you  going  to  furnish  a  house,  how  are  you  go- 
ing to  live  during  the  first  quarter  ?  Will  your 
mother  ever  consent  to  tear  herself  away  from 
4  her  dear  boy '  and  Acacia  Yilla  ?  "  And  the 
answer  to  each  was  such  as  showed  the  utter 
hopelessness  of  attempting  any  such  scheme 


66  Wedlock 

as  a  way  out  of  her  present  difficulties.  The 
want  of  experience,  the  want  of  capital,  the 
drag  that  her  invalid  mother  must  always  be 
upon  her  movements,  these  disadvantages  al- 
ways came  home  to  her  when  she  thought  out 
some  fresh  scheme  for  earning  a  living. 

"  If  I  had  only  myself  to  consider,  I  could 
go  and  be  a  scullery-maid,"  she  said  to  herself 
passionately,  forgetting,  poor  girl,  that  a 
school-teacher  would  be  of  but  little  use  in 
kitchen  or  scullery. 

So  the  days  went  by,  peacefully  and  un- 
eventfully enough,  in  perfect  content  on  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  part,  in  feverish  unrest  for  Mary. 
And  as  each  one  darkened  into  night,  she  felt 
that  she  was  one  day  nearer  to  a  terrible  alter- 
native, to  a  meeting  with  the  man  who  had 
sworn  to  protect  her  against  all  possible 
troubles,  but  who  had  outraged  her  woman- 
hood, and  broke  down  every  shred  of  respect 


Parted  67 

and  gratitude  which  she  might,  nay  would  have 
felt  for  him.  She  felt  more  and  more  as  each 
morning  rose  that  she  was  fast  approaching  the 
time  when  she  must  either  submit  to  the  vilest 
degradation  of  herself  or  see  her  mother  thrust 
out  in  her  feebleness  to  face  a  cold  world  in 
which  there  was  not  so  much  as  the  barest 
provision  for  her  1  It  was  a  terrible  situation, 
a  cruel  alternative,  yet  it  was  the  natural  out- 
come of  a  marriage  entered  into  without  the 
one  great  amalgamating  alloy — love ! 

But  time  goes  on.  Be  the  need  ever  so 
great,  there  are  no  Joshuas  nowadays  to  bid 
the  sun  stand  still  in  the  heavens  and  so  time 
flits  on  with  noiseless  and  relentless  step.  The 
summer  faded,  autumn  drew  on,  winter  was 
nigh  at  hand  and  Mary  Conway  had  found  no 
resting-place,  no  coign  of  vantage,  no  protec- 
tion against  the  humiliation  that  loomed  be- 
fore her. 


68  Wedlock 

Her  last  effort  was  to  go  round  the  great 
dress-shops  in  the  "West  End  but  each  one  found 
some  fault  and  would  have  none  of  her.  One 
told  her  that  want  of  experience  was  an  insu- 
perable objection,  another  that  they  never  took 
young  ladies  into  the  show-rooms  without  a 
handsome  premium.  A  third  complained  that 
she  was  not  tall  enough,  a  fourth  that  she 
looked  delicate,  a  fifth  that  she  was  too  shy  in 
manner.  So  she  went  home  wearied  in  mind 
and  body  alike  with  one  more  avenue  closed 
to  her,  one  more  hope  gone.  And  when  she 
with  a  word  of  explanation  upon  her  lips, 
opened  the  drawing-room  door,  it  was  to  find 
her  mother  lying  senseless  upon  the  ground, 
and  in  her  stiffened  fingers  an  evening  paper 
tightly  clutched. 


CHAPTEE  Y 

SHIPWKECK 

MARY  CON  WAY  forgot  in  an  instant  all  the 
weariness  and  heartsickness  which  had  pos- 
sessed her  when  she  entered  the  house.  She 
cast  but  one  glance  at  the  helpless  figure  lying 
on  the  hearth-rug,  then  ran  to  the  bell  and 
pulled  at  it  hard,  an  eager  peal  such  as  brought 
the  two  maidservants  running  in  to  see  what 
was  amiss. 

"  Mouncey — my  mother !  How  long  has 
she  been  left  ?  "  Mrs.  Conway  gasped. 

Mouncey  with  a  scared  face  knelt  down  on 
the  other  side  of  the  unconscious  woman. 
"  Lor,  ma'am,"  she  said,  in  trembling  tones, 
"  it's  not  ten  minutes  since  I  carried  tea  in.  I 

69 


7o 


Wedlock 


came  twice  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  said  she'd 
rather  wait  for  you  and  at  last  Foster  made 
the  buns  hot  and  I  brought  tea  in  without 
saying  anything.  And  Mrs.  Hamilton  she 
says,  '  Why,  Mouncey,'  she  says,  '  you  do  spoil 
me.'  And  I  says  to  her,  *  Lor,  ma'am,  misses 
will  be  vexed,  if  you  go  any  longer  past  your 
tea-time.'  And  then  she  says,  'There's  the 
newsboy.  I'd  like  a  paper,  Mouncey.'  So  I 
went  out  and  got  one  and  I  give  it  to  her  and 
— why,  poor  lady,  she's  never  had  any  tea  at 
all." 

"  "We  must  get  her  up  to  bed  at  once,"  said 
Mary,  anxiously.  "  Can  we  carry  her  among 
us?" 

"Lor,  yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Mouncey, 
promptly — "a  little  bit  of  a  thing  like  her. 
Here,  Foster,  take  her  feet — I'll  take  her  head. 
No,  ma'am,  we  can  do  better  just  the  two  of 
us." 


Shipwreck  7 1 

.  She  was  right  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who  was 
very  small  and  slight,  was  soon  safely  laid 
upon  her  own  bed. 

"  I'd  better  fetch  the  doctor,  ma'am  ?  "  asked 
Foster. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  at  once.  We  must  get  her 
into  bed,  Mouncey." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  but  there's  no  need  to  hurry. 
Poor  lady,  I'm  afraid  it  will  make  very  little 
difference  to  her." 

"  Hush — sh ! "  cried  Mary,  fearfully. 

"  Kay,  ma'am,  she  hears  nothing.  If  I  was 
you  I  would  just  cover  her  over  with  the  eider- 
quilt  till  the  doctor  has  seen  her.  Anyway  I 
wouldn't  undress  her  till  the  fire  has  burned 
up.  I  was  just  coming  up  to  light  it." 

She  covered  the  old  lady  with  the  warm, 
gay-colored  quilt  as  she  spoke  and  taking,  after 
the  manner  of  housemaids,  a  box  of  matches 
from  her  pocket  set  light  to  the  fire,  which 


j2  Wedlock 

soon  burned  up  cheerfully,  casting  a  bright 
glow  over  the  pretty  room. 

"  I'll  fetch  you  a  cup  of  tea  now,  ma'am," 
she  remarked,  "for  I'm  sure  you  need  it." 

The  protest  which  instinctively  rose  to  her 
lips,  died  away  under  a  newborn  realization 
of  her  intense  weariness.  "  I  am  very,  very 
tired,  Mouncey,"  she  said,  helplessly. 

The  good-natured  girl  drew  her  into  a  chair 
by  the  fire.  "  Sit  here,  ma'am,  until  I  bring 
your  tea.  You  can't  do  anything  for  the  poor 
lady  and  you  may  want  all  your  strength  for 
later  on." 

She  sped  away,  returning  in  a  very  short 
time  with  the  tea-tray  on  which  was  a  pot  of 
fresh  tea  and  a  covered  plate  of  hot  buns 
which  had  been  on  the  stove  awaiting  the  mis- 
tress's return.  This  she  arranged  on  a  little 
table  by  the  fireside,  then  poured  out  the  tea 


Shipwreck  73 

and  held  the  inviting  little  cakes  that  Mary 
might  take  one. 

In  truth  Mary  was  too  tired  to  refuse  such 
ministrations  which  were  doubly  welcome  just 
then,  and  Mouncey  fairly  stood  over  her  until 
she  had  eaten  enough  to  satisfy  her  sense  of 
what  was  necessary  and  right.  Then  she  went 
downstairs  leaving  her  mistress  sitting  in  the 
big  armchair  wondering  what  the  end  of  it  all 
would  be. 

"Poor  mother,"  her  thoughts  ran — "poor, 
poor  mother.  Are  you  going  this  time  and 
have  I  made  the  sacrifice  for  nothing  ?  No, 
not  for  nothing,  for  I  shall  always  be  able  to 
say  '  The  end  of  her  life  was  peace.' " 

She  rose  restlessly  from  her  chair  and  went 
to  the  side  of  the  bed,  where  she  stood  look- 
ing down  upon  the  drawn,  grey  face  already 
so  deathlike  in  the  immobility  of  unconscious- 
ness. "  I  wonder  what  caused  her  to  have  an 


74  Wedlock 

attack  ?  "  Mary  said  to  herself.  "  She  was  so 
bright  and  well  this  morning.  Could  there 
have  been  anything  in  that  paper  ?  Where  is 
it  ?  What  did  Mouncey  do  with  it  ?  " 

She  looked  about  for  it  but  without  success, 
and  then  she  remembered  that  possibly  it  was 
still  in  her  mother's  hand.  So  it  proved  to  be 
and  Mary  was  obliged  to  tear  the  sheet  a  little 
in  order  to  release  it  from  that  vice-like  grip. 

A  glance  was  sufficient  to  tell  the  cause  of 
Mrs.  Hamilton's  seizure.  As  she  smoothed 
the  crumpled  page,  her  eye  caught  the  head- 
ing of  the  latest  telegraphic  news — "  Reported 
loss  of  the  Ocean  Liner,  Arikhama,  with  over 
three  hundred  lives." 

Mary  Conway  was  still  staring  wildly  at 
the  paper  when  Mouncey  came  in  with  the 
doctor  in  her  wake.  "What  is  it?"  she 
asked,  seeing  the  horror  on  her  young  mis- 
tress's face. 


Shipwreck  75 

"  Oh,  Mouncey — the  paper — the  news — my 
poor  mother,"  was  all  that  Mary  could  say  ere 
exhausted  nature  gave  way  under  the  strain 
and  she  dropped  to  the  ground  as  dead  to  all 
sound  and  feeling  as  the  poor  lady  stretched 
upon  the  bed. 

"Dear,  dear,  dear,"  said  the  doctor,  "but 
this  is  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish.  Dear,  dear,  a 
bad  seizure  this  time.  I  was  afraid  it  might 
happen  before  long.  My  good  girl,  is  there 
bad  news  in  that  paper  ?  " 

"Lor,  sir — master's  ship — loss  of  the  Ari- 
Jchama  with  three  hundred  souls.  That's  mas- 
ter's ship — he's  the  captain.  Oh,  my  poor 
missis,  my  poor,  poor  missis ! " 

"  Good  heavens — are  you  sure  ?  " 

"See  here,  sir — oh,  it's  true  enough.  Oh, 
my  poor,  poor  missis." 

"  "Well,  help  me  to  get  her  off  the  floor — in 
her  case  it's  no  more  than  a  simple  faint. 


76  Wedlock 

Yes,  in  that  chair — undo  her  gown — a  few 
drops  of  brandy.  There,  there,  my  dear  lady, 
you'll  be  all  right  now." 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  asked  Mary,  strug- 
gling up  but  sinking  back  again  as  her  head 
began  to  swim — "  Oh,  I  remember,  it  doesn't 
matter  about  me,  doctor,  but  my  mother — she 
is  very  ill.  The  shock  was  too  much  for  her. 
Do  attend  to  her,  please." 

"If  you  will  lie  still,  the  maid  and  I  will 
attend  to  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  said  the  doctor, 
soothingly.  "Little  or  nothing  to  be  done," 
he  murmured  to  Mouncey,  as  they  turned  to 
the  bed.  "  She  is  not  likely  to  live  the  night 
out.  She  must  be  got  into  bed,  of  course. 
What  strength  have  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  strong,  sir,"  replied  Mouncey, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"No,  no,  I  meant  how  many  of  you  are 
there?" 


Shipwreck  77 

"  Me  and  cook,  sir." 

"  What  is  she  like  ?  n 

"  As  strong  and  sensible  a  young  woman  as 
you  could  wish  to  see  in  a  day's  march,  sir," 
replied  Mouncey,  promptly.  "  And'll  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  the  missis." 

"That's  good.  If  Mrs.  Hamilton  lingers 
there  must  be  a  nurse  got  in,  of  course ;  but 
for  to-night  there  will  be  little  or  nothing  to 
do,  only  she  must  not  be  left.  I'll  help  you 
to  get  her  into  bed." 

"  "We  can  manage,  sir." 

"  It  is  not  so  easy  as  you  think.  Besides  I'd 
like  to  see  her  safely  into  bed  before  I  leave." 

The  desired  end  was  soon  accomplished,  un- 
der the  skilled  hands  of  the  doctor  and  the 
willing  ones  of  Mouncey.  Then  the  doctor 
wrote  down  a  few  simple  instructions  and  left, 
promising  to  look  in  again  the  last  thing. 

"  Mrs.  Con  way,"  he  said,  gently,  to  Mary, 


78  Wedlock 

"  I  must  beg  of  you  to  try  to  eat  your  dinner. 
You  have  had  a  great  double-shock  and  you 
will  need  all  your  reserve  of  strength.  I  have 
given  your  maid  all  instructions — there  is 
little,  almost  nothing  to  be  done  while  your 
mother  continues  in  this  state." 

He  went  away  then  and  Mary  sat  down 
again  in  the  big  chair.  The  cook  was  busy 
with  the  dinner  and  Mouncey,  after  clearing  up 
some  imaginary  litter,  disappeared  with  the 
tray,  promising  to  come  back  in  a  few  min- 
utes. So  she  was  left  alone  with  her  dying 
mother  and  the  knowledge  of  her  own  widow- 
hood, left  alone  to  face  the  fact  that  she  was 
practically  free,  that  all  the  horror  and 
wretchedness  which  had  but  a  few  hours  be- 
fore lain  directly  facing  her,  had  suddenly 
been  removed.  The  tears  gushed  out  from  her 
sad  eyes  as  she  realized  how  this  had  come 
about,  but  although  she  wept,  the  sense  of  re- 


Shipwreck  79 

lief  was  there,  involuntary,  yet  very,  very 
strong. 

It  was  a  wretched  night  which  followed. 
Mary  honestly  tried  to  eat  the  dainty  little 
dinner  which  Foster  served  to  her  while 
Mouncey  mounted  guard  in  the  sick-chamber, 
but  all  the  time  the  sound  of  rushing  waters 
was  in  her  ears  and  the  vision  of  drowned  faces 
before  her  eyes,  and  she  turned  loathingly 
from  the  lonely  meal  which  would  have  been 
thoroughly  enjoyed  by  the  the  poor  soul  up- 
stairs fast  drifting  into  eternity. 

The  pretense  of  dinner  over  she  crept  back 
again  to  the  sick-room,  sending  the  two  maids 
down  to  supper  and  staying  alone  to  keep  the 
watch  by  the  dying  beloved  for  whom  she  had 
worked  so  hard  and  suffered  so  much,  to  watch 
the  outward  passage  of  that  frail  and  feeble 
little  bark  which  would  leave  her  tossing  to 


80  Wedlock 

and  fro  upon  the  ocean  of  life  with  none  to 
counsel  or  guide. 

It  was  a  terrible  night  and  it  was  followed 
by  a  still  more  terrible  day.  Mary  received 
from  the  owners  of  the  great  ship  full  con- 
firmation of  the  news  which  the  newspaper  had 
taken  to  them  in  the  first  instance. 

There  was  not  the  smallest  doubt  that  the 
large  vessel  was  gone,  that  she  was  many 
fathoms  under  water.  There  was  little  or  no 
doubt  that  Captain  Conway  had  gone  down 
with  her  and  so  far  as  was  known  only  five 
persons  of  all  her  goodly  company  had  lived  to 
tell  the  tale  of  her  disastrous  end.  Two  of 
these  were  passengers,  two  were  ordinary 
sailors,  the  fifth  was  the  ship's  purser ;  all  the 
rest  of  the  three  hundred  souls  who  had  sailed 
aboard  of  her  had  found  a  watery  grave  and 
would  be  seen  no  more. 

All  through  the  long  hours  of  watching  and 


Shipwreck  8l 

suspense  did  Mary  Conway  try  to  battle  down 
the  overwhelming  sense  of  relief  which  had 
taken  possession  of  her.  She  cared  not,  did  not 
feel  the  very  smallest  grief  for  the  husband 
who  had  forgotten  his  manhood  and  her 
Avomanhood  alike,  but  she  hated  herself  for  not 
feeling  it.  Her  heart  was  torn  in  twain — one 
half  was  singing  a  pa3an  of  thankfulness  for 
deliverance,  the  other  was  bursting  with  a 
sense  of  her  own  impotence  and  helplessness 
to  avert  the  sword  then  hanging  above  the 
head  of  her  sick  mother  as  the  sword  of  Dam- 
ocles hung  suspended  by  a  single  hair. 

She  was  glad  in  her  heart  that  her  care  and 
anxiety  for  her  mother  would  naturally  ac- 
count for  the  absence  of  any  exhibition  of 
great  or  noisy  grief  for  her  husband.  The 
doctor  spoke  of  the  loss  of  the  AriMama  once 
or  twice,  and  Mouncey  brought  her  the  latest 
details  that  were  published  in  the  papers,  but 


82  Wedlock 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  during  those  first  few  days 
the  object  of  paramount  interest.  Captain 
Conway  was  gone !  All  the  love  or  loathing 
in  the  world  could  not  affect  him  any  more, 
for  him  all  was  over,  he  had  already  passed 
among  the  things  that  have  been  and  shall  be 
no  more.  But  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  still  alive, 
still  needed  the  most  minute  care  and  the 
closest  attention.  She  was  in  spite  of  that  ter- 
rible tragedy  of  the  sea,  the  most  important 
person  of  that  small  household. 

In  health  she  did  not  improve.  At  times 
faint  flashes  of  understanding  came  back  but 
they  were  only  feeble  and  flickering  efforts  of 
the  clouded  brain  to  reestablish  its  mastery  of 
what  was  going  on  around  her.  If  she  knew 
any  one  definitely  it  was  Mary,  but  of  that, 
even,  they  were  none  of  them  very  certain. 
The  nurse  who  was  in  charge  said  positively 
that  Mrs.  Hamilton  knew  no  one.  Mouncey 


Shipwreck  83 

on  the  other  hand  insisted  that  she  had  seen 
the  poor  lady's  eyes  follow  the  mistress  as  she 
moved  away  from  the  bed.  This,  however, 
was  a  question  which  no  one  could  decide  pos- 
itively but  in  discussing  it,,  the  on-lookers, 
although  it  is  proverbial  that  on-lookers  see 
most  of  the  game,  never  realized  that  in  anxiety 
for  her  mother,  Mrs.  Conway  suffered  no  grief 
for  her  husband. 

On  the  fourth  day  after  the  coming  of  the 
news,  Mary  received  a  visit  from  two  gentle- 
men. One  was  the  managing-director  of  the 
company  to  which  the  AriJchama  had  belonged, 
the  other  was  by  him  introduced  as  the  lawyer 
to  the  company. 

"You  are  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Lawson,  the 
managing-director,  "  not  aware,  Mrs.  Conway, 
that  your  husband  made  a  will  three  days 
before  the  Arikhama  sailed  from  London." 

"  I  did  not  know  it,"  said  Mary. 


84  Wedlock 

"Such,  however,  was  the  case,"  he  said, 
suavely,  "  and,  moreover,  his  last  instructions 
were  that  should  anything  happen  during 
either  of  these  voyages,  Mr.  Mannington" — 
indicating  his  companion  by  a  gesture — 
"  should  at  once  seek  you  out  and  make  you 
acquainted  with  as  little  delay  as  possible  with 
his  last  wishes  with  regard  to  the  property  he 
had  to  leave." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  HAND    OP   THE   DEAD 

MR.  LAWSON  ceased  speaking  and  fixed  his 
attention  upon  his  companion.  Mary  also 
turned  her  clear  eyes  upon  the  lawyer  and 
awaited  what  he  might  say  next.  To  say  the 
least  of  it  his  remark  was  unexpected.  "I 
may  say  at  once  that  I  did  not  make  this  will 
of  Captain  Conway's,"  he  said,  in  polite  and 
strictly  professional  accents.  "It  was  made 
by  some  person  unknown  to  me  and  handed 
to  me  by  Captain  Conway  sealed  as  you  see  it 
with  instructions  that  should  necessity  arise  I 
should  at  once  seek  you  out,  break  the  seals  in 
your  presence  and  make  you  acquainted  with 
the  contents." 

"  I  am  quite  at  your  service,"  said  Mary, 

tremulously. 

85 


86  Wedlock 

The  lawyer  at  once  broke  the  seals  and 
drew  from  the  long,  tough  envelope  a  folded 
paper.  Mary  sat  with  hands  quietly  clasped 
in  her  lap  waiting.  Mr.  Mannington  cast  his 
eye  over  the  writing,  frowned,  bit  his  lip, 
glanced  at  the  girl- widow  apprehensively  and 
then  coughed  nervously. 

"You  have  no  idea — I  should  say — I 
mean  " — he  stammered. 

Mary  looked  up.  "  Will  you  read  it  ?  "  she 
suggested.  "  I  have  no  idea  what  is  in  it  but 
I  shall  be  surprised  at  nothing.  Captain  Con- 
way  had  strange  ideas  on  some  subjects." 

"Very  strange,"  murmured  Mr.  Lawson, 
who  gathered  from  the  lawyer's  manner  that 
the  will  contained  nothing  of  pleasant  import 
to  the  lady. 

"  I  will  read  it,"  said  the  lawyer — then 
coughed  again  and  began.  "  I,  Edward  Con- 
way,  Captain  of  the  &  S.  Artichama,  being  of 


The  Hand  of  the  Dead  87 

sound  mind  on  this  the  eleventh  day  of  July 
18 —  declare  this  to  be  my  last  will  and  testa- 
ment. All  and  any  property  of  which  I  die 
possessed,  I  give  and  bequeath  to  my  nephew, 
Howard  Conway,  to  be  absolutely  and  entirely 
at  his  own  disposal 

(Signed)         "EowAKD  CONWAY. 

"  In  the  presence  of 

"  Henry  Challerton, 

"John  Walker." 

For  a  few  moments  the  widow  and  the  ship- 
owner were  too  much  surprised  to  speak.  Of 
the  three  Mary  was  the  most  composed — Mr. 
Lawson  was,  however,  the  first  to  break  the 
silence. 

"  You  were  perhaps  otherwise  provided  for, 
Mrs.  Conway  ?  "  he  said,  gently. 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I  am  entirely 
unprovided  for,"  she  replied. 


88  Wedlock 

"But — but  such  a  will  is  preposterous. 
Mannington,  is  there  no  possibility  of  upset- 
ting it  ?  " 

"  Wills  have  been  upset,  of  course,  and  will 
be  again,"  said  the  lawyer,  guardedly.  "  In 
this  case,  however,  such  a  course  would  be 
costly — and  uncertain.  Mrs.  Conway  Avas 
living  with  her  husband  up  to  the  time  of  his 
leaving  home,  she  is  living  under  his  roof  now 
— it  would  be  difficult  to  prove  that  the 
nephew  had  possessed  or  exercised  any  undue 
influence  or  that  the  testator  was  not  of  sound 
mind  at  the  time  of  making  the  will.  You 
for  instance  could  not  come  forward  to  throw 
any  doubts  upon  his  sanity  from  your  own  ob- 
servation, for  the  jury  and  the  public  would 
alike  ask  what  were  you  about  to  send  out  a 
vessel  like  the  Arikhama  in  charge  of  a  per- 
son whom  you  believed  to  be  more  or  less  of  a 
lunatic." 


The  Hand  of  the  Dead  89 

"  You  could  not  say  it,"  put  in  Mary,  rising 
to  her  feet.  "  Nor  should  I  wish  it.  Gentle- 
men, you  need  not  trouble  about  me — I  dare 
say  Mr.  Howard  Conway  will  not  turn  me 
out  of  this  house  while  my  mother  is  so  ill — 
or  until  she  is  gone  where  there  is  no  need  of 
any  refuge." 

"I  will  communicate  with  him  at  once," 
said  Mr.  Mannington.  "  It  is  not  at  all  likely, 
especially  as  he  inherits  everything — which 
must  be  a  great  and  unexpected  thing  for 
him,"  he  added. 

"  Then  I  need  not  detain  you  any  longer," 
said  Mary,  holding  out  her  hand. 

Mr.  Lawson  possessed  himself  of  it.  "  For- 
give me,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  kindly, 
"but  have  you  means  for  the  moment?  If 
you  have  illness  in  the  house  and  you  spoke  of 
your  mother  " — 

"  My  mother  is  very  ill,  very,  very  ill,"  said 


go  Wedlock 

Mary.  "  She  was  an  invalid  when  I  married, 
but  the  news  of  Captain  Conway's  death  came 
upon  her  without  warning  and  brought  on  an- 
other stroke,  a  very  serious  one.  "We  have  not 
much  hope  of  her." 

Her  voice  dropped  away  to  what  was  little 
more  than  a  whisper.  Mr.  Lawson  kept  hold 
of  her  hand  and  murmured  consoling  little 
phrases ;  Mary,  however,  was  quite  dry-eyed, 
her  grief  and  despair  were  too  deep  for  ordi- 
nary ways  of  sorrow.  "  You  must  let  me  see 
you  through  this,"  he  said  at  last.  "Your 
husband  was  in  the  service  of  my  company  for 
many  years  and  you  must  not  hesitate  to  take 
from  me  what  is  necessary  to  tide  you  over 
this  unlooked-for  time.  Have  you  formed  any 
idea  or  plans  yet?  But  no — of  course  you 
have  not.  Who  was  to  expect  that  such  a  will 
would  be  left  behind  ?  " 

Mary  looked  up  at  him  with  her  wonderful 


The  Hand  of  the  Dead  91 

clear  eyes.  "I  earned  my  living  for  years 
before  I  was  married,"  she  said,  simply. 
"  And  I  shall  be  able  to  earn  it  again.  Just 
now,  of  course,  I  am  all  out  of  reckoning 
and  can  set  about  nothing.  You  are  very 
kind,  Mr.  Lawson — but  I  have  some  money 
left." 

"  I  will  supplement  it,"  he  said,  hurriedly, 
and  tore  himself  away  unable  longer  to  bear 
the  dumb  pain  of  her  eyes  and  mouth. 

At  last  she  was  left  alone,  alone  to  think 
over  the  end  to  which  her  fine  marriage  had 
brought  her,  to  think  that  here  she  was  in  a 
house  which  she  had  thought  her  own,  but 
which  had  been  left  away  from  her  to  one 
whom  her  husband  had  always  professed  to 
hate  fiercely,  penniless  except  for  the  few 
pounds  which  she  happened  to  have  drawn 
out  of  the  bank  before  the  news  of  the  foun- 
dering of  the  Arilchama  had  reached  them. 


92  Wedlock 

Well,  she  had  wished,  longed,  prayed  to  be 
free,  and  her  wishes,  longings  and  prayers  had 
been  heard  and  answered.  She  was  free,  she 
was  a  white  slave  no  longer,  she  would  never 
again  realize  with  a  thrill  of  shuddering  hor- 
ror that  she  had  sold  herself  into  bondage, 
into  the  worst  and  most  hateful  kind  of  bond- 
age, that  she  had  sold  not  only  herself,  her 
body,  but  to  all  intents  and  purposes  her  very 
soul.  Well,  it  was  all  over  now.  She  was 
herself  again,  accountable  to  no  one  for  her 
actions,  she  was  free  of  that  unbearable  chain, 
of  that  hated  union.  The  worldly  dross  for 
which  she  had  sacrificed  herself  had  fallen 
away  like  the  links  of  the  chain  of  fate  and 
she  would  have  to  begin  at  the  lowest  rung  of 
the  ladder  again. 

Still  she  would  be  content.  Every  crust  of 
bread  that  she  earned  would  be  her  own,  and 
sweet  would  be  the  taste  thereof — it  would  be 


The  Hand  of  the  Dead  93 

better,  far  better  to  sweep  a  crossing  and  to 
live  contentedly  on  the  pence  earned  by  sweep- 
ing it  well,  than  to  live  in  luxury  earned  by 
the  loss  of  all  her  womanly  self-respect.  There 
came  to  her  mind  more  times  than  once  a 
verse  out  of  the  Great  Book — "  Better  a  din- 
ner of  herbs  where  love  is  than  a  stalled  ox 
and  hatred  therewith." 

How  true,  how  true,  and  yet  the  poor  soul 
above  struggling  with  the  rapids  of  life  and 
death  had  never  seen  the  beauty  of  the  dinner 
of  herbs,  she  had  longed  to  be  as  the  stalled 
ox,  believing  that  the  smoothest  pathways 
must  always  be  the  most  pleasant  and  the  best 
for  us.  Well,  she  had  enjoyed  her  brief  spell 
of  the  stalled  ox  to  the  full  and  it  was  prob- 
able that  she  would  slip  away  over  the  great 
barrier  without  ever  knowing  that  there  had 
been  hatred  at  all.  And  if  that  should  be  so, 
Mary  Conway  felt  that  she  would  be  able  to 


94 


Wedlock 


face  all  the  rest  of  her  life  fearlessly  and  with 
a  thankful  spirit. 

Late  in  the  evening  a  messenger  arrived 
bringing  a  letter  by  hand  from  Mr.  Lawson. 
It  read : 

"DEAR  MRS.  CONWAY.  I  do  not  ask,  I 
do  not  seek  to  know  the  reason  that  your 
husband  left  so  strange  and  almost  inhuman 
a  will  behind  him ;  it  is  enough  for  me  that 
you  are  a  woman,  alone,  young  and  in  trouble. 
Will  you  accept  the  enclosed  as  a  gift  from 
one  who  knew  your  husband  for  many  years 
and  who  liked  and  respected  him  ?  I  beg  you 
to  accept  it  as  kindly  as  it  is  offered  to  you. 
"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  HENRY  LAWSON." 

Enclosed  with  this  letter  was  a  check  for  a 
hundred  pounds. 

It  would  be  hard  to  describe  Mary's  feelings 
that  night.  The  kindness,  the  distant  dignity 
of  the  few  words  impressed  her  deeply.  She 


The  Hand  of  the  Dead  95 

never  thought  of  refusing  the  kindly  gift,  so 
welcome  to  save  her  from  unheard-of  horrors, 
she  only  longed  fiercely  and  passionately  that 
she  might,  nay  could,  would  go  and  tell  this 
man  everything,  tell  him  the  whole  story  of 
her  marriage  and  the  cause  pure  and  simple 
why  Captain  Conway  had  left  a  cruel  and 
wholly  unjust  will  behind  him,  a  sinister  blow 
to  strike  her  in  a  vulnerable  part,  and  from 
which  she  had  no  chance  of  defending  herself. 

She  went  to  her  bed  that  night  with  a  fixed 
intention  of  going  in  the  morning  to  seek  out 
Mr.  Lawson  and  to  tell  him  everything,  with  a 
determination  that  she  would  justify  herself  in 
his  eyes. 

But  morning  brought  different  feelings ;  in 
the  early  dawn  a  change  for  the  worse  came 
over  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  the  nurse  called  Mary 
from  her  bed  believing  that  the  end  was  nigh 
at  hand.  And  as  she  stood  by  the  side  of  that 


96  Wedlock 

poor,  flickering,  feeble  light  so  soon  to  burn  out 
into  nothingness  so  far  as  concerned  this  world, 
a  voice  came  to  her  telling  her  to  do  nothing, 
to  say  nothing,  the  voice  of  a  strange,  curious, 
wise  instinct  which  said — "You  are  free — 
don't  fetter  your  freedom  by  troubling  about 
the  past.  With  good  intentions  you  did  what 
you  thought  and  believed  was  for  the  best. 
The  sacrifice  was  made,  served  its  purpose  and 
you  are  released.  Do  nothing.  Accept  the 
kindness  of  this  stranger,  take  it  as  it  is  offered, 
endure  all  in  silence.  At  the  very  worst  his 
suspicion,  if  he  has  one,  is  only  a  suspicion. 
No  good  can  come  to  you  by  blackening  the 
memory  of  a  dead  man.  If  you  speak  you  will 
but  save  your  fair  fame  at  the  expense  of  his. 
If  he  has  been  ungenerous  to  you,  so  spiteful 
as  to  aim  a  blow  at  you  from  his  sailor's 
grave,  do  not  retaliate  by  striking  back  at  him 
now.  Best,  far  best  to  suffer  in  silence ;  wisest, 


The  Hand  of  the  Dead  97 

far  wisest  to  cut  yourself  oif  as  completely  as 
may  be  from  the  mistaken  past,  to  begin  life 
afresh  on  your  own  lines  and  as  free  as  is  pos- 
sible from  the  influences  which  have  domi- 
nated you,  hurt  you,  and  poisoned  your  better 
self  heretofore. 

Mary  Con  way  knew  that  her  instinct  was  a 
wise  one,  that  the  strange  mysterious  voice 
was  that  of  a  friend  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word.  She  made  up  her  mind  during  those 
few  terrible  hours  of  watching  that  she  would 
follow  the  advice  which  had  come  to  her  from 
her  inner  self,  that  she  would  bury  the  past 
and  begin  a  new  life  with  the  day  that  she 
turned  her  back  upon  the  home  of  her  brief 
married  life,  the  house  which  had  been  in  no 
sense  a  home  to  her. 

And  the  following  day  Henry  Lawson  re- 
ceived this  note : 

"  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart  for  your 


98  Wedlock 

kind  and  generous  gift.  It  will  be  my  salva- 
tion and  will  enable  me  to  start  myself  afresh. 
I  am  quite  alone  in  the  world  now.  My  mother 
died  at  five  o'clock  this  afternoon. 

"  Yours,  with  deep  gratitude, 

"  MARY  CONWAY." 


CHAPTEE  VII 

LIFE  ON  NEW  LINES 

As  soon  as  she  could  be  quietly  and  decently 
laid  away  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  carried  out  of 
the  pretty  villa  in  which  she  had  enjoyed  her 
brief  spell  of  prosperity,  and  then  Mary  made 
her  preparations  for  turning  her  back  upon  her 
old  life  forever. 

She  was  not  obliged  to  leave  the  house  with 
undue  haste,  for  Howard  Conway  wrote  to 
her  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  news  of  his  inher- 
itance, telling  her  that  the  house  was  quite  at 
her  disposal  for  a  few  weeks,  until  indeed  she 
had  time  to  make  her  arrangements.  Mary, 
however,  replied  that  if  Mr.  Conway  would 
send  some  one  to  take  possession  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  following  Monday  morning  she 

99 


1  oo  Wedlock 

would  be  ready  and  that  she  would  prefer  to 
give  up  possession,  as  she  would  be  leaving  the 
house  then. 

Greatly  to  her  relief  Howard  Conway  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  appear  himself  but 
sent  a  young  solicitor  who  treated  the  outgo- 
ing widow  with  a  curious  mixture  of  condo- 
lence and  admiration  such  as  would  have  made 
a  woman  who  knew  the  world  better,  exceed- 
ingly angry.  Upon  Mary,  however,  this  man- 
ner had  no  effect.  She  had  just  passed  through 
the  great  tragedy  of  her  life,  she  was  face  to 
face  with  a  great  question  "  how  to  live  in  the 
future  "  and  a  flippant  young  man  with  rather 
bad  manners  had  no  more  effect  upon  her  than 
she  might  have  felt  from  a  gnat  humming  to 
and  fro  in  the  air. 

She  took  nothing  with  her  excepting  such 
things  as  had  been  absolutely  her  own,  bought 
with  her  own  money,  earned  by  her  own  labor. 


Life  on  New  Lines  101 

Howard  Conway's  friend  was  astonished  to 
find  all  the  little  woman's  treasures  which  she 
left  lying  about. 

"  But  surely  these  are  your  own  personal  be- 
longings, Mrs.  Conway  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  in  his 
surprise  pointing  to  various  photographs  in 
pretty  frames  which  stood  on  a  little  table 
near  the  drawing-room  window. 

"JSTo,  they  were  not  mine,"  she  replied. 
"  They  all  belonged  to  Captain  Conway  and 
of  course,  they  go  with  the  house." 

"But  my  dear  lady,"  and  here  he  grew 
quite  affectionate  in  tone — "  surely,  you  are 
interpreting  the  letter  of  the  will  too  literally. 
My  friend  Howard  Conway  is  the  last  man  in 
the  world  to  wish  to  be  hard  on  a  woman — a 
young  woman — his  uncle's  widow.  He  will 
not  expect  or  wish  you  to  leave  such  purely 
personal  things  as  these  behind." 

"  I  prefer  it,"  said  Mary. 


1O2  Wedlock 

"  Most  ladies  In  your  circumstances  would 
have  stripped  tlie  house,"  he  persisted — "  and 
would  have  left  nothing  but  the  bare  chairs 
and  tables." 

"  Perhaps.  But  I  am  not  one  of  those 
ladies — and  besides,  I  wish  to  take  nothing 
away  to  remind  me  of — of  " — 

"Yes?" 

"That  I  once  lived  here,"  she  said,  with  a 
sudden  flash  of  feeling,  the  first  that  she  had 
shown. 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  if  that  is  the  way 
the  " —  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  saying 
"  the  cat  jumps,"  but  broke  the  homely  simile 
off  short — "  if  that  is  how  you  feel,  Mrs.  Con- 
way,  it  is  no  use  my  suggesting  anything  else." 

"  But  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  feel  an  inter- 
est in  me,"  said  Mary,  a  smile  breaking  over 
her  face  for  the  first  time.  "  I  shall  never  for- 
get it.  I  thank  you." 


Life  on  New  Lines  103 

A  few  minutes  later  she  had  passed  out  of 
the  house  and  away  from  her  old  life  forever. 

She  had  made  her  plans  carefully  with  a 
view  to  furthering  her  resources  to  the  utter- 
most, she  had  taken  a  single  room  in  a  respect- 
able house  in  Bloomsbury.  She  was  not  des- 
titute, for  she  had  still  nearly  a  hundred 
pounds  to  call  her  own.  Mrs.  Hamilton's  life 
had  been  insured  for  a  sum  which  had  almost 
covered  the  cost  of  her  illness  and  burial,  and 
Mary  had  bought  her  mourning  with  a  keen 
eye  to  economy,  in  fact  she  had  spent  and 
meant  to  spend  nothing  that  she  could  possibly 
avoid.  She  knew  that  if  need  be  she  could 
live  for  a  year  on  her  little  store  and  she 
knew  too  that  it  was  a  totally  different  thing 
to  seek  a  living  free  and  independent  as  she 
was,  to  seeking  it  while  tied  and  hampered 
with  an  invalid  mother. 

But  she  did  not  find  it  an  easy  thing  to 


Wedlock 

drop  into  a  pleasant,  comfortable  position  such 
as  she  wanted,  by  no  means.  For  several 
weeks  she  tramped  to  and  fro,  here  and  there, 
always  seeking  something  more  or  less  indefi- 
nite, a  something  which  she  found  it  difficult 
to  describe-in  words. 

Then  she  pulled  herself  up  short  and  began 
to  think  the  situation  out  in  a  different  way. 
And  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  could 
not  go  on  in  this  vague,  indefinite  way,  that 
she  must  make  up  her  mind  to  follow  a  certain 
course  and  she  must  follow  it.  The  question 
was  what  ?  She  went  over  all  the  openings 
which  she  had  already  tried  to  follow  up  and 
she  came  after  much  anxious  cogitation  to  the 
conclusion  that  there  were  only  left  to  her 
now,  either  of  which  she  might  take  as  her 
metier  and  train  herself  to  become  proficient 
in — there  were  nursing  and  typewriting. 

She  enquired  fully  into  the  merits  and  de- 


Life  on  New  Lines  105 

merits  of  both.  She  found  that  she  could  not 
properly  qualify  for  a  nurse  under  a  training 
of  at  least  three  years.  Even  then  she  would 
not  have  got  to  the  top  of  the  tree  and  it  was 
more  than  likely  that  long  before  three  years 
had  gone  by  she  would  have  broken  down,  for 
she  was  not  physically  or  constitutionally  an 
especially  strong  person.  If  all  the  tales  she 
heard  of  hospital  or  infirmary  training  were 
true,  she  felt  that  a  month  or  six  weeks  would 
about  show  her  how  fruitless  it  was  for  her  to 
attempt  a  career  of  which  magnificent  health 
and  nerve  are  the  very  first  requisites. 

So  practically  the  career  of  a  nurse  was  dis- 
posed of  and  put  on  one  side  as  an  impossible 
one.  There  only  remained  then  open  to  her 
that  of  a  typewriter. 

The  accounts  which  she  gathered  of  this 
way  of  making  a  living  were  more  hopeful. 
She  would  pay  ten  guineas  to  be  taught  the 


106  Wedlock 

trade  and  six  months  would  see  her  in  a  fair 
way  of  earning  a  decent  living.  She  could, 
until  she  was  proficient,  live  very  cheaply  and 
quietly  in  her  modest  little  room,  and  she 
would  have  every  interest  in  forcing  herself 
ahead  as  quickly  as  possible.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  the  manipulation  of  a  delicate  and  intel- 
ligent machine  (this  was  the  way  that  a  young 
girl,  whose  acquaintance  she  made  in  a  tea- 
shop,  spoke  of  her  typewriter,)  which  could 
be  in  any  way  revolting  to  her,  or  which  was 
in  any  sense  beyond  her  powers.* 

"  And,  of  course,"  said  the  girl,  "  if  you  gD 
in  for  shorthand  as  well,  you  just  double  your 
value  from  the  very  start." 

"  Is  it  difficult  ?  "  Mary  asked,  rather  diffi- 
dently. 

"  Yes,  it  is  difficult,"  the  girl  replied,  "  kit 
by  no  means  insurmountable.  And  the  ad- 
vantages are  enormous.  Oh,  it  is  a  grand  life 


Life  on  New  Lines  107 

for  a  woman.  Any  woman  of  average  intel- 
ligence can  make  a  living  at  it  and  a  woman 
whose  intelligence  is  above  the  average  can  do 
more  than  make  a  living.  She  can  command 
her  own  price.  Then  it  is  a  free  life  !  I  mean 
in  this  way.  If  a  woman  goes  in  for  nursing, 
she  needs  years  and  years  of  training  and 
goodness  only  knows  whether  she  will  prove 
herself  a  really  skilled  nurse  at  the  end  of  it. 
She  needs  superhuman  strength,  endless  pa- 
tience, infinite  tact ;  and  for  what  ?  To  earn 
at  best  two  guineas  a  week,  to  be  treated  a 
little  better  than  a  servant,  to  be  always  in  a 
position  that  is  entirely  temporary.  A  typist 
on  the  other  hand,  especially  if  she  is  also  a 
stenographer,  can  easily  make  a  hundred  a 
year,  provided  that  she  is  really  good  at  her 
work.  She  has  her  fixed  hours,  her  fixed  holi- 
days. She  has  always  her  Sundays  and  her 
Saturday  afternoons.  All  the  tact  that  is  neo 


io8  Wedlock 

essary  for  her  is  to  mind  her  own  business 
and  hold  her  tongue.  She  has  her  evenings  to 
herself  and,  if  she  likes,  she  can  get  extra  work 
then  so  as  to  put  by  an  extra  sum  to  her  ordi- 
nary earnings  for  her  summer  holiday.  It  is  a 
fine  life  for  a  woman — there  is  no  mistake 
about  that." 

The  result  of  this  chance  meeting  and  con- 
versation with  an  utter  stranger  was  that 
Mary  went  straight  away  to  a  certain  school 
of  typewriting  and  at  once  entered  herself  as 
a  pupil  for  the  entire  course.  And  then  she 
set  herself  to  work. 

She  was  an  apt  pupil.  Her  well-balanced 
mind,  tinged  by  disappointment  and  trouble 
but  unruffled  by  the  greater  passions  of  life, 
quickly  grasped  the  intricacies  of  the  curious 
dots  and  dashes  which  seem  so  mysterious  and 
confusing  to  the  majority  of  mortals.  She 
made  rapid  progress,  and  before  the  six 


Life  on  New  Lines  109 

months,  which  she  had  allowed  herself  for  her 
pupilage,  had  come  to  an  end,  she  found  her- 
self established  in  the  office  of  a  small  firm  of 
brokers  at  a  salary  of  fifteen  shillings  a  week. 

It  was,  of  course,  but  a  beginning.  Still  it 
was  a  beginning  and  Mary  had  accepted  it 
gladly,  both  for  what  it  brought  her  and  as  an 
earnest  of  better  things  to  come.  And  each 
evening  when  she  had  left  the  office  and  had 
had  tea  at  the  nearest  X.  Y.  Z.  shop,  she  went 
off  to  the  school  and  worked  hard  at  her  short- 
hand. 

A  few  months  more  saw  her  in  different  cir- 
cumstances, for  she  left  the  firm  of  brokers  and 
engaged  herself  to  a  lawyer  of  large  practice 
who  paid  her  thirty  shillings  a  week  and 
treated  her  pleasantly  into  the  bargain.  After 
nearly  a  year  in  this  office  her  employer  sud- 
denly died  and  she  was  thrown  out  of  work. 

Not  that  she  was  destitute — by  no  means. 


l  io  Wedlock 

She  had  lived  carefully,  almostly  frugally, 
keeping  always  in  mind  the  possibility  of  a 
rainy  day  in  time  to  come.  She  took  a  week's 
holiday  and  spent  it  at  Dovercourt,  where  she 
sat  by  the  glorious  sea,  basking  in  golden  sun- 
shine and  the  keen  brisk  air,  revelling  in 
novels  and  drinking  in  a  full  supply  of  health 
and  strength  which  would  last  her  for  at  least 
a  year  to  come. 

Among  the  books  she  had  taken  down  with 
her  was  one  which  had  been  lent  to  her  by  her 
one  intimate  friend,  the  girl,  Lucy  Chalmers, 
who  had  first  given  her  information  about  the 
life  and  career  of  a  typist.  Mary  had  been 
three  golden  days  by  the  sea  ere  she  began  to 
read  it — it  was  called  "A  Lover's  Creed  of 
Love." 

It  is  almost  impossible  for  me  to  tell  the  ef- 
fect that  this  story  had  upon  Mary  Conway. 
It  was  a  story  of  passion  passionately  written. 


Life  on  New  Lines  ill 

It  was  fervid,  full  of  life  and  stir  and  color, 
and  it  was  clean  and  wholesome  in  tone 
withal.  It  was  unmistakably  the  work  of  a 
man  rich  in  imagination  who  was  yet  full  of 
common  sense  and  sound  judgment.  It  fasci- 
nated, enthralled,  amazed  her.  She  went  to 
bed  and  dreamed  of  it. 

She  read  it  over  again  several  times  during 
the  rest  of  her  week's  holiday,  leaving  the 
other  books  unread  after  the  first  glance  into 
their,  to  her,  meaningless  pages ;  during  those 
few  days  she  lived  with  it. 

Then  she  went  back  to  London.  She  was 
feeling  stronger  and  more  really  free  just  then 
than  she  had  ever  been  in  all  her  life  before. 
She  was  independent,  she  stood  face  to  face 
with  the  world  it  is  true,  but  it  was  no  longer 
a  world  of  which  she  was  afraid.  She  stood 
firm  upon  her  own  feet.  She  owed  not  a 
penny  to  any  man. 


112  Wedlock 

Her  first  errand  was  to  go  to  a  great  shop 
where  typewriters  are  sold 

"I  wish  to  put  my  name  down  on  your 
books,"  she  said. 

"  As  typist  ?  " 

"  And  stenographer." 

"  What  is  your  speed  ?  " 

"  One  hundred  and  twenty,"  said  Mary,  with 
quiet  assurance  such  as  carried  conviction  with 
it. 

"  You  are  used  to  our  machines  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  have  used  no  other." 

"  "Well,  if  you  will  give  me  your  name  and 
address,  I  will  let  you  know  if  anything  suit- 
able offers  itself." 

"Thank  you.  Mrs.  Conway,  201  Welling- 
ton Street,  Bloomsbury." 

The  clerk  wrote  down  the  name  and  address 
and  Mary  turned  to  go.  "By  the  by,"  he 
said,  "  I  don't  know  if  you  wouldn't  be  just  the 


Life  on  New  Lines  113 

one  for  a  gentleman  now  on  our  list.  Let  me 
see,"  turning  over  the  pages  of  a  big  book — 
"'Lady — not  young  girl — quiet — must  have 
speed  over  a  hundred.'  You  might  go  and  see 
this  gentleman.  I'll  give  you  a  card.  It  is 
Mr.  Alan  Stacey,  the  novelist." 

"The    author    of    'A    Lover's    Creed    of 
Love ' ! "  cried  Mary,  breathlessly. 


CHAPTER  YIII 

ALAN   STACEY,  THE  NOVELIST 

IT  was  with  a  beating  heart  filled  with 
nervousness  and  apprehension  that  Mary  Con- 
way  found  herself  waiting  at  the  door  of  Alan 
Stacey,  the  novelist's  house  in  Fulham. 

It  was  evidently  a  somewhat  old  house  and 
was  enclosed  in  a  high-walled  garden.  It  was 
at  the  gate  of  this  garden-door  that  she  waited 
patiently  after  giving  a  humble  little  pull  at 
the  handle  of  the  bell  such  as  she  would  not 
have  given  at  the  door  of  a  duke.  At  last  she 
rang  again  and  then  her  summons  attracted 
attention.  She  heard  footsteps  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door  and  then  it  was  flung  open 
and  a  man  in  the  usual  decorous  garb  of  a 
servant  stood  to  hear  what  she  wanted. 

114 


Alan  Stacey,  the  Novelist         115* 

"Does  Mr.  Alan  Stacey  live  here?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Is  he  at  home  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Stacey  is  not  out,  ma'am,"  the  man 
replied,  "  but  he  does  not  usually  see  any  one 
at  this  hour.  Mr.  Stacey  is  in  his  study, 
ma'am." 

"  Still  I  think  he  will  see  me,"  said  Mary, 
eagerly,  "  if  you  will  give  him  this  card." 

""Walk  this  way,  ma'am,"  said  the  man, 
taking  the  card  between  his  finger  and  thumb 
in  the  peculiar  manner  of  a  well-trained 
servant. 

He  led  the  way  down  a  broad  flagged  path- 
way which  led  to  the  house.  It  was  covered 
by  a  kind  of  veranda  and  on  either  side  a 
charming  garden  spread  until  bounded  by  the 
old  wall.  It  was  a  charming  garden,  rich  in 
ancient,  mossy  turf  and  gay  with  many  flow- 


Ii6  Wedlock 

ers.  All  manner  of  creepers  entwined  them- 
selves about  the  pillars  which  supported  the 
sheltering  roof  overhead,  and  great  hydran- 
geas bloomed  at  the  bases  of  them. 

The  house  was  long  and  low,  had  long  win- 
dows opening  like  doors,  and  a  wide  veranda 
running  its  entire  length.  This  veranda  was 
paved  with  brilliant  colored  tiles  on  which 
were  flung  here  and  there  rich-looking  rugs. 
Huge,  easy  chairs,  wicker  tables  and  a  ham- 
mock made  a  pleasant  lounge,  and  there  were 
flowering  plants  everywhere. 

"  "Will  you  take  a  seat  here,  ma'am  ?  "  said 
the  man,  indicating  a  large  chair.  "I  will 
enquire  if  Mr.  Stacey  will  see  you." 

Mary  sat  down  and  he  disappeared  into  the 
house.  She  sat  drinking  in  the  pleasant  scene, 
doubly  pleasant  after  the  arid  stretches  of 
Bloomsbury  bricks  and  mortar  to  which  she 
was  accustomed.  To  her  it  seemed  like  a  syl- 


Alan  Stacey,  the  Novelist         117 

van  retreat  far,  far  away  from  the  rush  and 
turmoil  of  cities  where  strife  lives.  She  could 
hear  her  first  acquaintance  the  servant  speak- 
ing and  a  man's  tones  answering. 

"  All  right.  I'll  come  out,"  said  the  man's 
voice. 

The  next  moment  a  tall  man  in  light  grey 
clothing  came  out  by  the  window.  .  .  . 
Mary  was  in  Alan  Stacey's  presence. 

"  Mrs.  Con  way,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  card 
in  his  hand  and  then  at  her. 

Mary  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  Yes,  I  am  Mrs. 
Con  way,"  she  said,  tremulously.  "Messrs. 
Bloomingby  thought  that  I  should  suit  you." 

"  As  a  typist  ?  " 

"  And  stenographer,"  she  added,  quickly. 

"  Pray  sit  down,"  said  Alan  Stacey,  kindly, 
and  himself  pulled  a  chair  near  enough  to  talk 
with  ease.  "  What  is  your  speed  as  a  short- 
hand writer  ?  " 


li8  Wedlock 

"  A  hundred  and  twenty." 

"Good!  You  look  intelligent  which  is 
more  to  the  point.  Have  you  been  with  any 
author  before  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Mary,  "  I  have  been  with  a 
solicitor — and  that,  of  course,  was  work  need- 
ing great  care  and  precision." 

"  Ah,  yes.    And  why  did  you  leave  him  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  leave  him,"  she  replied ;  "  unfor- 
tunately for  me  he  died." 

"  I  see.  Do  you  think  you  would  like  my 
kind  of  work  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  promptly. 

"  I  am  not  very  easy  to  work  with.  I'm  as 
crochetty  as  most  other  literary  men,"  Mr. 
Stacey  said.  "  I  have  just  got  rid  of  a  man, 
an  excellent  fellow,  for  no  reason  than  that  he 
sat  on  the  edge  of  his  chair  and  waited.  I 
would  have  forgiven  him  many  things  but  his 
waiting  became  oppressive — it  killed  every  idea 


Alan  Stacey,  the  Novelist         119 

I  had.  Before  that  I  had  a  young  lady.  She 
knew  Shakespeare  by  heart,  and  could  quote 
Xenophon — but  she  would  mend  my  copy  as 
she  went  on  " — 

"Oh,  how  dared  she?"  Mary  burst  out. 
Mr.  Stacey  looked  at  her  with  a  vague  sense  of 
amusement.  "  I  assure  you  Miss — well,  never 
mind  her  name,  it  is  immaterial — but  Miss 
Blank  we  will  call  her — thought  very  small 
potatoes  of  me.  I  can't  write  by  hand,  I've 
got  writer's  cramp  and  I  have  always  a  terri- 
ble lot  of  work  in  hand.  If  I  had  gone  on 
with  Miss  Blank,  I  should  have  been  as  dead 
as  a  doornail  by  this  time.  She  could  not  do 
my  work  without  ironing  it  out  as  she  went 
along,  so  that  every  vestige  of  style  and  indi- 
viduality was  eliminated  completely." 

Mary  gave  a  little  gasp.  "But  I  thought 
she  took  down  what  you  dictated,"  she  said, 
almost  breathlessly. 


1 2o  Wedlock 

"  Yes,  but  if  she  saw  what  she  thought  was 
an  error  she  was  always  kind  enough  to  mend 
it  for  me,"  said  Alan  Stacey,  smiling  at  the  re- 
membrance. "  She  knew  just  a  little  too  much 
for  me — she  must  have  been  over-educated  or 
something.  My  last  helper  had  on  the  con- 
trary no  ideas.  He  had  a  notebook  and  a 
sharp-pointed  lead  pencil.  When  I  was  in 
form  he  was  excellent.  When  I  had  to  get  a 
certain  amount  of  copy  turned  out  by  a  cer- 
tain time  and  I  hadn't  so  much  as  the  ghost  of 
an  idea  in  my  head,  he  used  to  sit  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair  waiting  till  I  did  get  an  idea.  If 
he  would  have  read  the  newspaper,  gone  to 
sleep,  walked  about  the  garden — if  he  would 
have  yawned  even  I  should  not  have  minded ; 
but  he  never  did.  He  once  said  it  was  all  in 
the  day's  work  whether  he  worked  or  waited. 
So  when  I  couldn't  work,  he  waited.  I  had  to 
get  rid  of  him.  I  found  him  an  excellent 


Alan  Stacey,  the  Novelist         121 

billet  and  swore  I  would  never  have  another 
helper  of  any  kind.  Then  my  hand  came  in 
and  said  '  No,  I'm  hanged  if  you  shall  use  me. 
I'm  delicate.'  So  I  sent  to  Bloomingby's.  So 
now,  Mrs.  Cosway,  you  see  what  kind  of  man 
I  am  to  deal  with — nervous,  irritable,  almost 
eccentric." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Mary,  smiling. 
This  man  was  wholly  delightful  to  her,  sur- 
rounded by  a  halo  of  romance,  still  young, 
strong,  unconventional  and  wholly  human. 

"Have  you  seen  any  of  my  work?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  have  read  the  '  Lover's  Creed '  a  dozen 
•times  at  least,"  she  answered. 

"  Ah !  Then  you  will  to  a  certain  extent 
understand  me.  I  should  need  you  from  ten 
to  five  each  day — well,  not  on  Saturday  after- 
noons, that  goes  without  saying." 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  Mary. 


122  Wedlock 

"  You  would  lunch  here —  By  the  by,  where 
do  you  live  ?  " 

"  In  Bloomsbury." 

"  That's  a  far  cry." 

"  I  should  seek  for  rooms  in  this  neighbor- 
hood," she  said,  quickly.  "  I  am  not  wedded  to 
my  present  quarters." 

"  Still  better.  You  are  married,  Mrs.  Cos- 
way  ?  " 

"My  name  is  Conway,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  I  am  a  widow." 

"  Oh !  forgive  me.  One  likes  to  know  every- 
thing. Have  you  children  ?  " 

"None — nor  a  single  relation  in  all  the 
world." 

"  Poor  little  soul !  "  The  words  slipped  out 
unconsciously,  as  if  he  were  thinking  aloud. 
"  Then  about  terms  ?  " 

"  I  will  take  what  you  are  accustomed  to 
pay,"  said  Mary. 


Alan  Stacey,  the  Novelist         123 

"  I  gave — let  us  say  two  guineas  a  week," 
he  returned,  hurriedly. 

"  But,  won't  you  try  me  first  ?  "  said  Mary, 
rather  taken  aback  by  this  unceremonious  way 
of  arranging  the  matter. 

"No — no — your  speed  is  a  hundred  and 
twenty — and  you  look  as  if  you  would  just  suit 
me." 

"  But  my  references ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Mrs.  Con  way  " —  said  the  novelist,  turning 
and  looking  directly  and  fixedly  at  her,  "  I 
would  just  as  soon  not  see  your  references.  I 
know  too  well  the  lies  one  tells  when  one 
wants  to  pass  some  one  on  to  one's  friends.  I 
know  too  well  what  they  are  worth.  Your 
last  employer  died  you  tell  me  " — 

"  But  it  mightn't  be  true,"  she  faltered.  "  I 
would  really  rather  " — 

"Do  you  want  a  character  with  me?"  he 
broke  in. 


124 


Wedlock 


"But  everybody  knows  you,"  she  cried, 
ingeniously.  "Everybody  has  read  your 
books." 

"  I  wish  they  did — I  should  make  a  decent 
income  then.  !N"o,  no,  Mrs.  Con  way,  I  know 
what  I  am  and  what  I'm  not.  I  know  my 
own  limitations  and  exactly  what  I  am 
capable  of.  It's  my  business  to  read  character. 
You  may  not  suit  me  as  a  secretary — but  only 
time  can  show  and  prove  that.  So  far  as  you 
yourself  are  concerned,  honesty  is  the  domi- 
nant note  of  your  life." 

Mary  could  not  help  starting.  Alan  Stacey 
continued,  "  You  give  yourself  away  continu- 
ally because  you  cannot  conceal  your  real 
feelings.  In  a  sense  you  are  bad  for  your- 
self because  you  cannot  dissemble.  You 
couldn't  tell  a  downright  lie  if  you  tried — and 
you  are  so  honest  that  you  wouldn't  try." 

"  I  do  hate  lies,"  said  Mary,  in  a  tone  as  if 


Alan  Stacey,  the  Novelist         12$ 

such  a  fact  were  rather  to  her  detriment  than 
otherwise. 

"Let  me  look  at  your  hand.  Yes,  it  is 
capable,  precise,  upright  and  highly  nervous. 
We  shall  be  able  to  work  together  very  well, 
I  am  certain.  At  all  events,  let  us  try  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Mr.  Stacey,"  said  Mary,  rising  as  she 
spoke.  "  I  will  do  my  very  best." 

""We  shall  get  on  splendidly,"  he  replied, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "  I  am  doing  a  particu- 
larly difficult  piece  of  work  just  now,  a  most 
difficult  subject  in  which  the  handling  is 
everything,  the  whole  difference  between  suc- 
cess and  failure.  I  was  writing  with  my  fist 
— yes,  doubled  up  so — in  despair  when  my 
servant  told  me  you  were  here.  Look  at 
this  " —  spreading  out  his  hand  and  showing 
an  angry  swollen  red  ridge  of  muscle  which 
rose  between  the  first  and  second  fingers  and 


126  Wedlock 

extended  beyond  the  wrist.  "That  means 
the  intensest  and  most  exquisite  agony — it 
seems  to  disappear  above  the  wrist  and  to 
rise  again  in  the  under  side  of  the  arm,  from 
where  it  runs  in  a  rope  of  pain  to  the  very 
arm-pit." 

"It  must  be  horrible,"  said  Mary.  "Are 
you  working  now  ?  " 

"  I  was  when  you  came." 

"  Why  don't  you  let  me  begin  right  away, 
sir  ?  "  she  ventured  to  say. 

He  looked  at  her  again  with  the  same 
quick,  alert  glance  as  before.  "  Don't  call  me 
'  sir,'  "  he  said,  half  amused  and  half  irritable. 

"  I  always  called  Mr.  Desmond  so,"  she  said, 
meekly. 

"  He  had  an  office  and  a  lot  of  clerks,  that 
was  different.  I  don't  require  that  kind  of 
thing.  One  c  sir '  would  upset  me  for  a  morn- 
ing. Come  into  my  study.  I  like  you  for 


Alan  Stacey,  the  Novelist         127 

tackling  the  work  straight  away. — "We'll  try 
how  it  goes." 

Mary  followed  him  into  the  study,  a  long, 
low-ceiled  room  with  many  books,  a  few  pic- 
tures, some  guns,  fishing-rods,  golf-clubs,  two 
luxurious  sofa-lounges,  and  half-a-dozen  capa- 
cious chairs.  A  rough  terrier  dog  lay  before 
the  open  window  and  a  big  Angora  cat  brin- 
dled like  a  bulldog  was  in  possession  of  a  fur 
rug  before  the  empty  fireplace.  It  was  a 
revelation  to  Mary  Conway — she  had  never 
seen  such  a  room  in  all  her  life  before. 

She  established  herself  at  a  table  and  they 
began.  She  was  amazed  at  the  ease  and  rapid- 
ity with  which  Alan  Stacey  poured  out  his 
story,  taking  it  up  at  the  last  written  word 
and  spinning  it  out  in  the  most  vivid  and  in- 
teresting way,  almost  indeed  acting  it  all.  So 
for  nearly  two  hours  they  worked  without  a 
hitch,  until  the  servant  came  to  say  that 


128  Wedlock 

luncheon  was  served.  Alan  Stacey  drew  a 
long  breath  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Come  to  lunch,"  he  said.  "  I  used  to  have 
ideas  about  not  interrupting  the  flow  of  genius 
— but  I  take  my  meals  at  regular  times  now — 
it  pays  better  all  round.  Do  you  think  you've 
got  all  that  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Mary.  "  If  you  will  allow 
me,  I  will  transcribe  it  after  lunch  so  that  you 
can  see  for  yourself." 


CHAPTEE  IX 

THE   INTERPRETER 

To  Mary's  surprise  the  table  was  only  laid 
for  two  persons.  It  was  essentially  a  man's 
table,  it  was  small  and  was  spread  with  a  nice 
clean  cloth  and  serviettes ;  its  dominant  note 
was  a  cruet-stand. 

"  Take  that  seat,"  said  Alan  Stacey,  with  a 
gesture  to  a  chair.  "  It  will  be  a  simple  lunch, 
I  warn  you.  If  I  eat  a  big  meal  now,  I  am 
no  good  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Some  people 
like  a  regular  dinner  at  midday — /  believe  it 
means  apoplexy  if  you  only  eat  enough  and 
sleep  soon  enough  afterward.  What  have  you 
to-day,  John  ?  " 

"  An  omelette,  sir,"  said  John — "  and  cold 

beef  and  salad." 

139 


130  Wedlock 

"  A  luncheon  for  a  king,  if  the  omelette  and 
salad  are  properly  made,  don't  you  think  so, 
Mrs.  Conway  ? 5<l  said  Alan  Stacey. 

"I  do,"  said  Mary,  wondering  whether  she 
ought  to  be  honest  and  say  that  a  dish  of 
scrambled  eggs  was  the  nearest  approach  to 
an  omelette  that  she  had  ever  tasted  in  her 
life. 

"  I  have  a  little  Frenchwoman  who  makes 
both  to  perfection,"  he  went  on.  "  Some  peo- 
ple like  to  make  a  salad  at  table — I  don't.  I 
know  several  delightful  houses  where  it  is  the 
task  of  the  young  ladies  to  dress  the  salad,  and 
they  do  it  with  a  diffidence  which  results  in 
loathliness.  Tell  Maltide  that  this  omelette  is 
excellent,  John." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

Mary  ate  her  portion  and  allowed  herself  to 
be  persuaded  into  taking  a  little  more.  But 
she  refused  wine  and  persisted  in  taking  only 


The  Interpreter  131 

water.  "I  must  keep  my  head  clear,"  she 
said,  firmly.  "  I  want  to  do  your  work  and 
myself  justice  this  afternoon." 

Alan  Stacey  tried  hard  to  overrule  her  be- 
cause as  he  said  they  ought  to  have  a  mild 
celebration  of  their  first  day's  work  and  their 
first  meal  together.  It  is  true  that  he  liked 
and  respected  her  the  better  that  she  held 
firmly  to  her  point. 

"When  the  book  is  finished,  Mr.  Stacey," 
she  said,  "  if  you  then  think  my  work  worth 
celebrating,  I  will  do  it  with  pleasure.  As  yet 
you  don't  know  whether  I  have  not  made  the 
most  fearful  hash  of  your  work — or  whether 
I  may  not  turn  out  to  be  ten  times  more 
aggravating  than  either  Miss  Blank  or 
the  good  gentleman  who  did  not  mind  wait- 
ing." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  con- 
viction. 


132  Wedlock 

His  instinct  proved  to  be  correct,  as  the  in- 
stinct of  a  man  who  has  given  his  life  up  to 
the  study  of  character  usually  is.  After  a  de- 
lightful luxurious  half-hour  of  chat,  Mary 
went  back  to  the  study  and  began  to  work, 
and  by  five  o'clock  had  finished  her  transcrip- 
tion of  the  morning's  work.  Alan  Stacey,  who 
was  as  keenly  interested  in  the  result  of  the 
experiment  as  she  was,  came  in  from  the 
garden  and  read  over  the  fair  typewritten 
pages.  He  did  not  speak  till  he  had  read  to 
the  end. 

"  Mrs.  Con  way,"  he  said  then — "  you  are  a 
perfect  treasure.  Can  you  keep  it  up  ?  " 

"How?" 

"  You  have  taken  me  down  literally,  word 
for  word,  point  for  point.  You  have  caught 
the  exact  spirit  of  my  idea — Mrs.  Conway,  if 
you  can  keep  it  up,  we  shall  get  on  splen- 
didly." 


The  Interpreter  133 

She  had  flushed  up  scarlet  in  her  excitement 
and  suspense  and  Alan  Stacey  looking  at  her 
said  to  himself  that  surely  his  star  had  been  in 
the  ascendant  when  such  a  dainty  creature 
had  suddenly  fallen  from  the  skies  in  lieu  of 
the  bulldog  features  and  staring  goggle  eyes 
of  the  patient  individual  who  had  but  just  left 
him. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  said,  with  her  pretty, 
shy  air,  "  so  proud  to  be  able  to  help  you.  I'll 
try  hard  never  to  be  anything  but  your  inter- 
preter." 

He  laughed  aloud  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"  That's  a  good  name  for  you,  Mrs.  Conway," 
he  said.  "I  can  never  say  'my  typist  does 
this '  or  *  my  stenographer  does  that.'  You're 
not  my  secretary — and  it  would  sound  preten- 
tious to  call  you  so.  But '  interpreter.'  That's 
a  splendid  name  for  you.  I  shall  always  call 
you  by  it." 


Wedlock 

And  so  lie  did.  She  went  that  very  even- 
ing and  looked  at  various  rooms  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, fixing  on  some  in  a  quaint  out  of  the 
world  nook  which  they  call  "  Parson's  Green." 
I  don't  mean  all  that  intricate  bewilderment 
of  small  featureless  little  streets  which  lie 
between  Fulham  Palace  and  the  cemetery, 
but  a  corner  on  the  other  side  of  the  railway 
line,  a  corner  which  then  was  still  rejoicing  in 
tall  old  trees  and  spacious  wide-fronted  houses, 
such  as  kept  an  air  of  dignity  about  them 
which  came  as  a  surprise  to  the  stranger  wan- 
dering through  the  neighborhood. 

And  then  began  a  long  spell  of  hard  work, 
yet  Avork  that  was  intensely  enjoyable  in 
character.  It  is  almost  impossible  adequately 
to  describe  the  effect  which  this  way  of  earn- 
ing her  living  had  upon  Mary  Conway.  She 
was  still  quite  young,  little  more  than  a  girl, 
and  during  all  her  early  years  romance  and 


The  Interpreter  135" 

the  joy  of  life  had  never  had  any  chance  of 
growing  and  flourishing  within  her. 

There  is  nothing  of  romance  about  the  life 
of  a  board-school  mistress,  more  especially 
when  under  the  continual  influence  of  a 
mother  who  never  forgot  her  gentility  or  that 
her  daughter  was  the  child  of  a  gentleman. 
The  board-school  mistress  who  can  love  and 
be  loved  again  by  a  young  man  whose  sphere 
is  the  same  as  her  own,  a  young  man  whose 
aims  and  ambitions  are  on  a  level  with  her 
own,  can  revel  in  romance  as  entirely  as  the 
hero  of  a  novel  or  the  lord  of  the  manor.  A 
young  girl  may  spend  her  life  in  the  stuffy 
class-room  of  the  state  schools  and  yet  invest 
her  lover  with  all  the  tender  and  idyllic  ro- 
mance of  a  knight  of  old ;  but  if  she  is  cut  off 
by  class-grade  from  intercourse  with  those 
men  among  whom  she  is  thrown  by  circum- 
stances, all  the  romance  which  may  be  in  her 


1 36  Wedlock 

heart  is  of  necessity  bottled  up  for  sheer  want 
of  an  outlet. 

Mary  Conway,  frail  and  delicate  of  being 
as  she  was,  gentle  woman  to  her  finger  tips,  a 
girl  in  whom,  all  the  signs  of  good  breeding 
were  present  to  a  very  marked  degree,  was  of 
a  nature  in  which  romance  was  indigenous, 
and  until  the  time  when  she  became  associated 
in  work  with  Alan  Stacey,  the  novelist,  no  sort 
of  outlet  had  afforded  itself,  and  all  the 
natural  love  in  her  heart  had  been  pent  up 
until  it  was  filled  nigh  to  bursting  and  was 
ready  to  overflow  at  the  first  kind  word  from 
a  sympathetic  soul,  at  the  first  touch  of  a  kind 
hand,  at  the  first  glance  of  a  pair  of  magnetic 
eyes. 

In  Alan  Stacey,  Mary  found  not  an  em- 
ployer but  an  idol.  From  the  first  day  she 
worshipped  him.  I  know  that  it  is  not  a  com- 
monly accepted  idea  that  a  woman  should  love 


The  Interpreter  137 

a  man  at  first  sight.  In  a  sense  she  did  not  do 
so ;  and  yet,  she  idolized  him !  The  possibility 
that  one  day  she  might  be  something  more  to 
Alan  Stacey  than  his  interpreter  never  for  a 
moment  entered  her  head.  But  she  loved  him 
with  a  dim,  far-off,  almost  a  religious  feeling. 
He  was  so  brilliantly  clever  both  in  his  work — 
for  where  were  such  vivid,  brilliant,  haunting 
human  books  to  be  found  as  those  which  bore 
his  name  ? — and  in  himself.  There  were  times 
when  he  worked  at  fever  heat  untiringly,  rest- 
lessly, almost  passionately,  times  when  the  fit 
was  on  him  when  he  almost  wore  her  out  call- 
ing on  her  to  come  early  and  to  stay  late,  times 
when  they  snatched  their  meals  and  when  she 
went  home  to  her  bed  dog-tired  and  brain 
weary. 

Yet  always  with  the  same  charm  and  sweet- 
ness of  way.  "  Mrs.  Conway,  I  must  get  on 
with  this  while  the  idea  is  alive  in  me —  You'll 


138  Wedlock 

help  me  through  it,  won't  you  ? "  or  "  Need 
you  go  ?  I  know  it's  time,  but  cannot  we  take 
a  little  holiday  when  it's  done  ?  Surely  it's 
best  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines." 

At  such  times  Mary  Conway  would  willingly 
rather  have  died  than  have  failed  him !  At 
others  he  would  laze  through  the  days,  letting 
his  work  slip  into  brilliant  easy  gossip,  telling 
her  his  ideas,  his  hopes,  his  aspirations,  making 
her  look  over  his  great  collection  of  stamps, 
help  to  arrange  his  autographs,  discussing  fur- 
niture or  the  next  smart  little  tea-party  that 
he  meant  to  give,  and  apparently  wholly  un- 
conscious that  she  took  any  more  interest  in 
him  than  the  man  who  waited  had  done. 

"  What  was  your  father  ?  "  he  asked  her  sud- 
denly between  the  pauses  of  his  work  one  day 
when  Christmas  was  drawing  near. 

"A  clergyman — he  was  curate  of  Elphin- 
stowe,"  she  replied. 


The  Interpreter  139 

"  Ah !  you  were  young  when  he  died  ?  " 

"  Yes — quite  a  child." 

"  And  your  mother  ?  " 

"  She  died  after  I  was  married." 

"  1  see !  Forgive  me  for  asking — but  were 
you  long  married  ?  Well,  of  course,  you 
couldn't  have  been,  you  are  still  so  young. 
But  did  you  lose  " — 

"  I  lost  my  husband  only  a  few  months  after 
our  marriage,"  Mary  said,  rising  suddenly  from 
her  place  at  the  little  table  where  she  worked 
and  going  to  the  fire,  where  she  stood  nervously 
holding  her  hand  out  to  the  warmth  and  keep- 
ing her  face  half  turned  away  from  him. 

"He  was — he  was — I  mean  was  he — was 
he"— 

"  He  was  a  sailor,  captain  of  one  of  the  Eed 
Kiver  Line  of  Steamers,"  said  Mary,  almost 
curtly.  "  He  was  drowned." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.     "It  must 


140  Wedlock 

have  been  a  great  shock  to  you,"  he  said  at 
at  last.  He  was  busily  occupied  with  a  paper 
knife  and  a  slip  of  note-paper,  and  spoke  in  a 
studiously  indifferent  tone  as  if  they  were  dis- 
cussing some  question  absolutely  impersonal  to 
both  of  them. 

"It  killed  my  mother,"  said  Mary,  still 
warming  her  hands. 

"  And  you  ?  "  he  rapped  out  the  question  in 
a  strange,  breathless  fashion. 

Mary  looked  aside  at  him.  "  Why  do  you 
ask  me  this,  Mr.  Stacey  ?  "  she  asked,  brusquely. 
"  I  was  beginning  to  be  happy — to  forget  all 
the  horrid  past.  I'll  tell  you  and  then  never, 
I  entreat  of  you?  speak  of  it  again.  I  sold  my- 
self because  my  mother  was  ill  and  because 
she  yearned  to  be  well-off.  I  was  honest  with 
him  and  he  professed  so  much.  I  told  him  I 
did  not  love  him — and — he  took  me.  Our 
marriage  was  a  failure,  a  most  dismal  failure. 


The  Interpreter  141 

I  was  wretched — I  hated  and  despised  him. 
He  was  bitter  and  mean  and  vindictive  toward 
me.  My  poor  little  mother  was  the  only  one 
who  got  any  sort  of  satisfaction  out  of  the 
bargain  and  she  did  not  have  it  long,  poor  soul, 
for  the  news  of  the  loss  of  the  Arikkama 
killed  her,  and  it  was  as  well,  for  he  left  every 
penny  away  from  me.  As  for  me — I  won't 
pretend  to  be  better  than  I  am ;  I  won't  sham ; 
I'll  tell  you  the  truth ;  I  thanked  God  when  I 
found  that  he  was  gone.  Yes,  I  did,  for  I 
would  have  put  myself  in  the  river  before  I 
would  have  lived  with  him  again." 

"  He  was  older  than  you  ?  " 

"  Many  years.  He  is  dead  and  they  say  we 
should  never  speak  ill  of  the  dead.  I  can't 
help  it.  He  was  a  brute ;  only  a  few  weeks 
after  we  were  married — he  struck  me.  Oh! 
why  did  you  ask  me  these  questions  ? — I  had 
almost  forgotten — at  least  I  did  not  always 


142  Wedlock 

think  of  it  as  I  did  at  first.     Why  did  you  ask 
me?" 

With  two  strides  Alan  Stacey  was  by  her 
side.  "My  dear,  my  dear,  shall  I  tell  you 
why  I  asked  you  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Because  I  had 
a  vital  interest  in  wanting  to  know.  I've  al- 
ways had  a  sort  of  feeling  that  you  belonged 
to  that  dead  husband  of  yours,  that  he  stood 
between  us,  keeping  us  more  widely  apart 
than  if  all  the  world  stood  between  us.  Can't 
you  understand  that  I  wanted  to  know — that 
I — Oh!  Mary,  child — don't  you  understand 
that  I  love  you  and  I  cannot  live  without 
you  ?  " 


CHAPTEK  X 

A  NEW   ARRANGEMENT 

WHEN  Alan  Stacey  had  once  broken  the 
ice  sufficiently  to  have  told  his  love  to  Mary 
Conway,  he  did  not,  by  any  means,  let  the 
grass  grow  under  his  feet.  Mary  drew  back  a 
little;  partly  because  the  pleasure  of  being 
betrothed  to  the  man  of  her  heart,  the  man 
of  her  brightest  and  most  fervent  admiration, 
was  very  great.  It  was  natural  enough. 
Her  first  engagement  had  been  a  dry-as-dust 
business,  an  arrangement  which  was  altogether 
in  the  light  of  a  bargain.  There  was  no  bar- 
gain between  her  and  Alan  Stacey,  only  the 
sweet  and  unspoken  bargain  of  trust  and 
affection,  mingled  with  the  Aspect  and  ad- 
miration which  the  one  had  for  the 

143 


144  Wedlock 

There  was  no  question  between  them  as  to 
whether  he  would  give  her  a  dress  allowance, 
or  as  to  what  housekeeping  money  she  would 
have  to  spend ;  there  was  no  question  as  to 
whether  she  would  be  able  to  do  her  duty  to 
him.  No,  they  loved  each  other,  and  that  was 
enough  for  both. 

"  But,"  he  urged,  "  there  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  wait.  We  have  nothing  to  wait 
for.  You  have  no  relations,  and  mine  do  not 
interfere  with  me.  As  to  your  vague  and  in- 
definite suggestion  about  clothes — well,  I  don't 
know  much  about  ladies'  dresses,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  you  can  get  a  couple  of  new  frocks 
in  a  week,  and  that  when  we  come  home  again 
you  can  buy  as  many  garments  as  you  find 
you  will  want.  Don't,  when  we  have  both 
been  lonely  and  wretched  apart,  don't  let  our 
happiness  wait  for  anything  so  paltry  as 
clothes.  Let  us  be  married  at  once." 


"  But  it  seems  so  soon,"  said  Mary. 

"  Not  at  all.  "We  cannot  possibly  pull  it  off 
under  a  fortnight,  and  we  know  each  other  so 
well.  There  is  nothing  like  working  together 
for  getting  to  know  somebody." 

"  But  the  story  ?  "  she  urged.  "  We  must 
finish  the  story." 

Alan  Stacey  looked  grave  for  the  first  time. 
"  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  the  story.  Little 
woman,  what  a  business  head  you  have.  I 
promised  it  for  the  end  of  the  month,  didn't 
I?" 

"  Yes,  you  did." 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to  finish  the  story  ;  but, 
perhaps,"  cheerfully,  "  if  we  were  to  push  on 
we  might  be  able  to  manage  it." 

"There  is  still  half  of  it  to  do." 

"And  I  shall  want  you.  I  can't  let  you 
spend  all  your  days  at  the  old  typewriter  now. 
I  wonder  if  I  could  work  with  anybody  else  ?  " 


146  Wedlock 

"You  are  not  going  to  try,"  said  Mary 
speaking  in  decided  tones,  for  the  first  time. 

"  Is  there  no  way  in  which  one  could  ease 
you  a  little  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Let  me  have  a  good  typist  in  the 
afternoon,  and  I  can  dictate  the  work  off  very 
much  more  quickly  than  doing  it  myself. 
But  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  work  just  as  usual. 
"What  difference  is  there  ?  The  fact  that  I 
know  you  love  me  need  not  turn  me  lazy  all 
at  once." 

"JSTo,  nothing  could  do  that.  But  I  shall 
want  you  more  with  me.  You  forget  that  up 
to  now  I  have  done  my  morning's  work  and 
have  been  free  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and 
you,  poor  little  soul,  have  sat  here  fagging 
your  heart  out,  as  I  don't  mean  to  let  you  do 
when  we  are  married.  Of  course  I  would 
rather  work  with  you — because  you  are  you, 
and  you  know  my  thoughts  almost  as  they 


A  New  Arrangement  147 

come;  you  interpret  me  to  perfection.  But, 
at  the  same  time,  I  shall  want  more  of  your 
society  than  I  have  had  in  the  past." 

"  I  see  no  way,"  said  Mary,  "  excepting,  as 
I  suggested,  a  typist  who  will  work  at  my  dic- 
tation." 

Eventually  she  gave  way,  and  consented  to 
be  married  as  soon  as  the  proper  arrange- 
ments could  be  made.  It  was  all  so  different 
to  her  last  marriage.  Then,  everything  had 
been  arranged  for  her;  now,  everything  was 
arranged  so  as  to  fall  in  with  her  slightest 
wish.  Her  first  husband  had  had  very  little 
to  'offer  her,  when  put  in  comparison  with 
Alan  Stacey.  Captain  Conway  had  been 
elderly,  rough,  plain,  and  only  compara- 
tively well-off.  He  had  demanded  impossi- 
ble things,  and  when  he  discovered  that  his 
desires  were  impossible  of  gratification,  his 
love  for  the  girl  whom  he  had  sworn  to  pro- 


148  Wedlock 

tect  and  cherish  had  been  curiously  inter- 
mingled with  an  absolute  hatred.  His  was 
the  kind  of  nature  which  to  begin  with  says — 
"  I  will  teach  you  to  love  me,"  and  afterward, 
"  If  I  cannot  teach  you  to  love  me,  I  will  kill 
you!"  His  was  the  kind  of  nature  which 
says — "  If  I  cannot  bend,  I  will  break ; "  the 
nature  which  looks  at  every  situation  of  life 
from  its  own  standpoint,  and  judges  all  the 
world  entirely  by  its  own  doings.  It  is  al- 
ways this  kind  of  nature  which  is  inherently 
dominant  and  essentially  domineering.  And 
how  different  was  Alan  Stacey.  He,  gifted, 
intellectual  and  brilliant,  was  content  to  lay 
everything  at  the  feet  of  the  woman  he  loved 
— all  the  fame  he  had  won,  the  position  he 
had  made,  the  wealth  he  had  amassed.  His 
desire  was  not  to  be  his  wife's  master  but  her 
knight;  not  to  feel  that  he  was  conferring 
honor  and  status  upon  her,  but  to  assume  al- 


A  New  Arrangement  149 

ways  that  in  giving  herself  to  him,  she  was 
laying  him  under  an  everlasting  and  delight- 
ful obligation. 

It  was  but  natural  that  Mary  was  not  only 
filled  with  love  but  with  a  boundless  and  un- 
bounded admiration.  This  was  the  man  at 
whose  feet  she  would  have  been  content  to  sit 
for  the  rest  of  her  life,  not  daring  to  lift  her 
eyes  higher  than  his  knees.  This  was  her 
king  among  men,  gifted  and  blessed  with  the 
right  royal  inheritance  of  genius.  This  man 
who  asked  so  little,  who  gave  so  much,  was 
not  one  who  had  power  only  over  a  handful  of 
men.  No,  the  name  with  which  he  was  en- 
dowed was  one  which  was  known,  and  known 
approvingly,  throughout  the  world;  known 
wherever  the  English  language  was  spoken; 
nay,  more  than  known,  for  it  was  loved. 

I  do  not  wish  to  portray  the  character  of 
Alan  Stacey  as  that  of  a  perfect  being;  in- 


150  Wedlock 

deed,  I  must  own,  what  Mary  had  found  out 
very  early  in  her  knowledge  of  him,  that  his  be- 
setting sin  was  idleness,  which  is  the  besetting 
sin  of  most  spinners  of  stories.  He  was  beset 
too  with  idleness  of  two  kinds,  the  genuine 
and  ordinary  sort  and  the  idleness  which  afflicts 
the  brain-worker.  It  is  only  your  nobodies 
who  are  thoroughly  industrious  in  art ;  great 
genius  is  always  subject  to  what  is  usually 
called  "  idleness,"  in  other  words  to  brain-fag. 
To  my  mind  the  most  pathetic  record  that  we 
have  of  George  Eliot,  is  where  she  conveys  in 
a  letter  to  a  friend  that  she  has  no  natural  de- 
sire for  work,  and  has  to  flog  her  brain  con- 
tinually so  that  she  may  get  her  promised 
task  completed  in  time.  She  too  speaks  of  it 
as  idleness.  And  with  that  same  kind  of  idle- 
ness Alan  Stacey  was  continually  afflicted,  as 
he  was  with  a  real  love  of  doing  nothing. 
In  times  gone  by  he  had  many  a  day  sat 


New  Arrangement 

down  to  work  in  the  morning,  saying,  "  Now, 
Mrs.  Con  way,  I  have  got  to  work  to-day;  I 
have  got  to  work  hard.  Now,  you  keep  me 
up  to  it."  And  no  sooner  had  Mary  inscribed 
half  a  dozen  lines  in  her  notebook,  than  he 
would  get  up  and  say,  "By  Jove,  there's  an- 
other robin  building  its  nest  in  that  holly 
bush ! "  or  some  such  remark,  which  was  inter- 
esting enough  in  itself,  but  which  did  not  help 
upon  its  way  the  story  then  in  hand.  And 
often  and  often  Mary  had  had  all  her  work 
cut  out  to  keep  him  chained  to  his  task,  and 
after  they  had  come  to  an  understanding  with 
one  another,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  he  never 
meant  to  work  again ;  as  if  he  could  not  keep 
his  mind  off  their  plans  for  the  future,  and  as 
if  any  and  every  subject  was  more  interesting 
to  him  than  the  fascinating  romance  upon 
which  they  were  then  at  work. 

"  Yes,  we  will  go  to  Monte  Carlo,"  she  said, 


152  Wedlock 

at  last  one  day,  "  but  we  will  not  go  to  Monte 
Carlo,  or  to  Paris,  or  to  church,  or  anywhere 
else,  until  you  have  finished  this  story.  Come, 
now,  I  am  waiting  to  hear  what  you  are 
going  to  do  with  Evangeline  now." 

"  I  think  I  shall  chuck  it  up,"  was  his  reply. 

"  No,  no ;  to  that  I  resolutely  decline  to  be 
a  party.  I  am  not  coming  into  your  life  to 
ruin  you.  You  have  to  finish  that  story,  be- 
fore we  can  dream  of  being  married.  Come, 
pull  yourself  together;  think.  Evangeline  is 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  wondering 
what  is  going  to  happen  next." 

"Well,  in  due  course  the  story  was  finished, 
and  when  the  last  words  had  been  taken 
down,  he  asked  her  eagerly  what  she  thought 
of  it. 

"  Give  me  your  candid  opinion,"  he  said. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mary,  "  that  it  is  by  far  the 
greatest  book  that  you  have  ever  done." 


A  New  Arrangement  153 

And  then  they  were  married,  going  quietly 
to  church  one  morning,  attended  only  by  a 
great  friend  of  Alan  Stacey's,  and  the  girl 
through  whom,  indirectly,  the  marriage  had 
come  about — the  girl  who  had  first  given 
Mary  the  idea  of  taking  up  typewriting  as  a 
serious  profession.  Then  they  went  back  to 
the  Sycamores  and  had  a  dainty  little  lunch, 
at  which  they  made  miniature  speeches,  drank 
each  others'  healths,  and  were  as  merry  as  if 
the  party  had  been  one  and  forty  instead  of 
but  four  persons.  Then,  at  the  last  moment, 
just  before  they  rose  from  the  table,  the  best 
man  thought  of  something. 

"  My  dear  chap,"  said  he  to  the  bridegroom, 
"there  is  one  thing  about  which  you  have 
given  me  no  instructions.  What  about  the 
announcements  to  the  papers  ?  " 

"  Need  it  be  announced  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Stacey,"  replied  the  best 


Wedlock 

man,  "it  is  absolutely  essential.  Bohemian 
as  Stacey  is — has  always  been — he  is  yet,  at 
the  same  time,  a,  persona  grata  in  society,  and 
unless  your  marriage  is  announced  formally, 
and  immediately,  I  am  afraid  that  it  will  not 
be  so  pleasant  for  you  when  you  come  home 
again.  Here,  give  me  a  bit  of  paper,  Stacey. 
Tell  me  how  you  wish  the  announcement  to 
be  worded,  and  I  will  see  that  it  is  in  all  to- 
morrow's papers." 

Alan  Stacey  got  up  and  fetched  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  a  pen  and  ink  from  the  writing 
table  in  the  window. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Mary.  "  This  is  my 
idea  what  to  say."  She  took  the  sheet  of  pa- 
per from  his  hand  and  wrote  clearly  and 
firmly — "  On  the  tenth,  at  the  Parish  Church, 
Fulham,  by  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Johnson-Brown, 
Alan  Stacey,  only  son  of  the  late  Colonel 
John  Stacey,  Bengal  Staff  Corps,  to  Mary 


A  New  Arrangement 

Conway,  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  George 
Hamilton." 

She  handed  the  paper  across  the  table  to 
her  husband,  and  he,  knowing  her  well,  re- 
alized instantly  that  her  horror  and  detesta- 
tion of  her  first  marriage  had  remained  with 
her  to  such  an  extent  that  she  would  not,  even 
in  the  formal  announcement,  identify  herself 
with  the  man  who  had  commanded  the 
"ArtichamOj"  the  man  who  had  bought  her 
with  a  price,  the  man  who  had  given  her  the 
only  blow  that  she  had  ever  received  in  the 
whole  course  of  her  life. 


CHAPTEK  XI 

ON  THE  TOP   OP  THE   TIDE 

ONE  of  the  rules  of  Alan  Stacey's  life  was 
that  when  he  took  a  holiday,  it  should  be  a 
real  holiday.  He  was  not  one  of  those  per- 
sons who  combine  business  with  pleasure,  and 
make  themselves  an  anno}rance  to  their  friends 
by  keeping  the  bogey  of  work  ever  present 
with  them. 

They  left  London  immediately  after  the  wed- 
ding, going  by  slow  and  easy  stages  to  Italy, 
and  for  three  long,  delicious  months  they  rev- 
elled in  luxurious  happiness.  Alan  Stacey 
made  traveling  so  easy.  He  was  content  to 
travel  for  pleasure;  he  detested  people  who 
made  it  a  business. 

"  No,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said  one  day,  to  an 

156 


On  the  Top  of  the  Tide          157 

enthusiastic  American  who  was  badgering  him 
to  go  and  see  an  Etruscan  tomb,  "  I  have  not 
been,  and  I  do  not  mean  to  go." 

"But,  my  dear  sir,  it  is  your  duty  to  go, 
you  ought  to  go,  you  ought  to  improve  your 
mind,  you  ought  to  see  all  that  there  is  to  be 
seen.  This  is  a  wonderful  specimen,  a  real  old 
Etruscan  tomb,  you  may  never  have  another 
opportunity  of  seeing  one  so  perfect  and  inter- 
esting." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Alan  Stacey,  doggedly ; 
"  I  came  here  to  enjoy  myself  with  my  wife. 
My  wife  doesn't  care  about  tombs,  and  I  don't 
care  about  tombs.  All  the  Etruscan  tombs  in 
the  world  will  not  be  the  smallest  use  to  me. 
They  do  not  interest  me,  and  they  do  not 
please  me,  and  I  refuse  to  be  badgered  into 
meditations  which  only  irritate  and  annoy 
me.  Do  you  go  and  look  at  the  tomb — 
and  stay  there — I  shall  not  complain,  I  shall 


158  Wedlock 

never  grumble  at  your  choice  of  a  habita- 
tion!" 

"Poor  thing,  he  means  well,"  said  Mary, 
when  the  energetic  sight-seer  had  departed. 

"  I  dare  say  he  does,"  Alan  replied,  with  a 
laugh,  "but  I  wish  he'd  go  and  mean  well 
somewhere  else.  Let  us  move  on.  You  said 
yesterday  that  you  would  like  to  go  to  Bella 
Yillia ;  let  us  go  to  Bella  Villia  and  lose  him." 

They  worked  their  way  home  from  Italy  at 
last,  returning  by  way  of  the  Riviera,  and  the 
middle  of  May  saw  Mrs.  Alan  Stacey  settled 
in  the  beautiful  old  house  at  Fulham,  with 
what  was  practically  the  world  at  her  feet. 

How  happy  she  was !  She  had  been  used  to 
think  that  no  matter  what  fate  awaited  her  in 
the  future,  the  horror,  the  sickening  dread,  the 
terror,  the  repugnance,  the  shuddering  misery 
of  the  past  would  always  be  with  her.  But  it 
was  not  so.  Time,  the  wonderful  physician, 


On  the  Top  of  the  Tide          159 

taught  her  to  forget;  and  by  the  time  she 
found  herself  installed  in  the  Fulham  house 
she  might,  so  far  as  her  feelings  went,  have 
been  Mrs.  Alan  Stacey  for  ten  years  instead  of 
little  more  than  as  many  weeks. 

On  the  very  first  morning  after  their  arrival 
home  she  sent  for  the  housekeeper  who  had 
been  left  in  charge  of  the  Sycamores  at  the 
time  of  their  marriage. 

"  I  sent  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Stacey,  gently, 
"  because  it  is  better  that  we  should  begin  with 
a  clear  understanding  of  how  we  mean  to  go 
on.  You  will  quite  understand  that  as  I  shall 
continue  to  help  Mr.  Stacey  with  his  work, 
that  I  shall  have  no  time  for  housekeeping. 
You  understand  Mr.  Stacey's  ways,  his  likes 
and  dislikes ;  he  has  been  admirably  satisfied 
with  you  in  the  past,  and  I  would  like  you  to 
know  now  that  I  desire  to  make  no  change. 
So  long  as  you  continue  to  satisfy  your  master, 


160  Wedlock 

you  will  satisfy  me.  You  will  please  continue 
exactly  as  you  have  done  heretofore — your  ac- 
counts, your  menus,  everything  just  as  before. 
Occasionally  I  may  make  a  suggestion  to  you 
if  there  is  some  dish  that  I  should  like  to  have, 
or  if  we  are  having  visitors  I  may  like  to  make 
some  little  alterations  in  the  menu,  but  as  a 
general  rule  I  do  not  wish  to  be  troubled  with 
any  housekeeping  arrangements." 

The  housekeeper — who  was  a  Frenchwoman 
and  thoroughly  knew  the  value  of  a  good 
place — thanked  her  mistress  and  assured  her  of 
her  fidelity  and  devotion. 

Then  Mary  rang  the  bell,  and  when  John 
came  in  answer  to  the  summons  she  told  him 
to  shut  the  door,  that  she  wished  to  speak  to 
him. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  I  have  just  been  talking 
to  Madame  Boniface,  and  telling  her  that  I 
wish  your  master's  marriage  to  make  no  dif« 


On  the  Top  of  the  Tide          161 

ference  in  the  domestic  arrangements.  You 
have  satisfied  him  for  many  years,  and  I  hope 
you  will  continue  to  satisfy  him  for  many 
years  longer.  I  may  have  to  give  you  a  few 
orders,  but  on  the  whole  I  wish  you  to  con- 
tinue precisely  as  you  have  always  done." 

"You  would  like  to  have  the  key  of  the 
cellar,  ma'am  ?  "  said  John,  politely.  He  had 
no  more  intention  of  giving  up  the  key  of  the 
cellar  than  he  had  of  giving  up  the  use  of  his 
senses,  but  to  make  the  offer  was  the  highest 
compliment  he  could  pay  to  his  new  mistress. 

Mary  laughed  outright.  "No,  John,"  she 
said,  "I  do  not  think  the  key  of  the  cellar 
would  be  of  very  much  use  to  me.  I  am 
frightened  of  cellars,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  and 
I  shouldn't  know  one  bottle  of  wine  from  an- 
other. No,  John ;  you  understand  Mr.  Stacey's 
ways,  and  you  will  please  just  do  for  him  as 
you  have  been  accustomed  to  do.  I  don't 


162  Wedlock 

think  that  his  marriage — our  marriage — will 
make  him  more  difficult  to  please.  I  hope 
quite  the  contrary.  But  thank  you,  John,  for 
offering  me  the  key  of  the  cellar.  I  am  sure 
it  is  a  very  great  compliment,  and  I  appreciate 
it  highly." 

And  then  she  smilingly  dismissed  him,  and 
John  went  away  feeling  that  after  all  his 
master  had  done  the  very  best  possible  thing 
for  himself. 

Then  she  and  Alan  settled  down  to  real 
hard  grinding  work.  He  declared  many  times 
that  never  in  the  whole  course  of  his  existence 
had  he  been  kept  to  work  so  ruthlessly  and 
so  persistently  as  by  his  new  task-mistress. 

"  By  Jove,  if  I  had  thought  that  you  were 
going  to  goad  me  on  like  this  I  should  have 
thought  twice  before  I  asked  you  to  come  here 
for  good  and  all !  " 

"  Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Mary.     "  It  is 


On  the  Top  of  the  Tide          163 

very  good  for  you,  and  you  know  you  are 
perfectly  happy,  so  don't  pretend  anything 
else." 

And  it  was  true  enough.  She  certainly 
managed  him  and  his  work  admirably ;  for  by 
keeping  him  up  to  the  mark  for  certain  hours 
she  was  able  to  be  free  herself  at  a  fixed  time 
every  day.  And  there  was  never  an  idle 
minute  for  either  of  them,  for,  as  I  said  awhile 
ago,  Alan  Stacey  had  always  been  a  persona 
grata  in  society,  and  his  many  friends  all 
seemed  but  too  anxious  to  receive  his  wife 
with  open  arms. 

It  was  a  brilliant  life.  All  that  was  best 
and  brightest  in  the  great  world  of  Art 
flocked  to  Alan  Stacey's  house  now  that  it 
boasted  of  so  charming  a  mistress.  Mrs.  Alan 
Stacey  went  everywhere  and  was  noted  wher- 
ever she  went.  Almost  every  day,  in  the  col- 
umns devoted  to  the  doings  of  well-known 


164  Wedlock 

people,  there  was  mention  of  the  brilliant 
novelist  and  his  wife.  Her  dress,  her  recep- 
tions, her  tastes,  were  continually  chronicled, 
and  for  his  sake — for  Mary  was  singularly  far- 
seeing  in  everything  that  concerned  her  hus- 
band— she  put  herself  to  immense  pains  in 
order  that  she  should  always  create  as  favor- 
able an  impression  as  possible.  She  was  essen- 
tially the  very  wife  of  such  a  man.  She  never 
attempted  in  any  way  to  shine  him  down, 
rather,  on  the  contrary,  did  she  draw  him  out 
and  show  him  at  his  best.  She  ruled  his 
household  with  a  dignity  and  simplicity  that 
went  to  make  her  a  favorite  with  all  classes 
of  his  friends.  Her  great  hold  over  him  lay 
in  the  fact,  that  although  she  was  possessed  of 
no  artistic  gift  herself  she  was  never  dull,  was 
not  in  the  least  degree  narrow  in  mind  or 
judgment,  that  she  was  possessed  of  that 
scrupulous  politeness  which  demands,  as  well 


On  the  Top  of  the  Tide          165 

as  gives,  attention.  At  the  end  of  a  year — a 
year  of  wholly  unalloyed  happiness — Alan 
Stacey  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  striking 
his  wife  as  of  omitting  to  pay  her  any  of  those 
small  attentions  which  are  as  oil  to  the  wheel 
of  the  matrimonial  chariot.  It  was  wonder- 
ful that  it  was  so ;  because  he  had  bestowed 
everything  upon  her ;  he  had  changed  her  life 
from  one  of  toil,  of  comparative  penury,  of  dul- 
ness,  of  loneliness,  to  a  brilliant  existence,  the 
light  of  which  she  had  never  known,  and 
which,  had  she  knoAvn,  she  would  never  have 
dared  to  think  could  possibly  one  day  be  hers. 
And  as  their  happiness  grew  and  throve 
apace,  so  did  Alan  Stacey's  star  of  fame  grow 
more  and  more  brilliant.  There  had  been  at 
the  time  of  his  first  great  success  croakers  who 
had  foretold  that  the  star  of  Alan  Stacey's 
brilliancy  would  wane  in  a  little  time.  But 
these  prognostications  had  proved  to  be 


1 66  Wedlock 

wrong.  "With  every  book  that  had  come  out, 
his  genius  was  seen  to  be  more  intense  and 
more  brilliant.  He  had  the  magic  touch,  the 
subtle  insight,  the  grace,  the  freshness,  the  ro- 
mance and  the  poetry,  which  are  needed  to 
make  a  really  great  and  lasting  success.  To 
some  of  us — to  most  of  us,  I  should  have  said 
— the  refining  fires  of  sorrow  are  necessary. 
But  now  and  again  there  shines  upon  the 
world  a  great  mind  which  feeds  on  the  sun- 
light. Alan  Stacey  was  one  of  these,  and 
the  more  the  happiness  of  his  life  increased, 
the  more  brilliant  did  his  work  become.  The 
untold  satisfaction  of  his  daily  life,  so  far  from 
cramping  or  stultifying  him,  seemed  as  if  it 
but  fed  the  fires  of  his  genius,  and  it  was  a 
common  thing  in  the  set  in  which  Alan  Stacey 
moved  for  their  union  to  be  cited  as  an  excuse, 
a  reason,  a  justification,  of  the  great  and  old- 
fashioned  institution  of  marriage. 


On  the  Top  of  the  Tide          167 

"  Marriage  a  failure !  "  cried  a  great  painter 
one  day,  when  some  theorist  propounded  the 
idea  that  marriage  was  frequently  a  failure 
because  of  the  inequalities  of  intellect  and  at- 
tainments in  those  who  were  indissolubly 
bound  together,  "  Marriage  a  failure  for  that 
reason — nonsense  !  Look  at  Alan  Stacey — the 
most  brilliant  chap  that  ever  sat  at  a  dinner 
table,  the  most  gifted  speaker,  a  writer  whose 
sway  stretches  all  over  the  world.  Little  Mrs. 
Stacey  has  no  attainments — she  does  nothing ; 
a  pretty  little  woman,  manages  the  house  and 
Stacey  admirably;  an  ordinary,  quiet,  sensi- 
ble, dignified  little  woman,  who  never  makes 
herself  cheap,  who  never  gives  herself  away, 
and  who  keeps  Stacey  as  straight  as  a  die. 
How  does  she  do  it  ?  Not  because  her  intel- 
lect is  equal  to  Stacey's — not  a  bit  of  it ;  no, 
but  simply  because  she's  the  right  woman  for 
him.  She  is  the  woman  he  ought  to  have 


168  Wedlock 

married,  and  luckily  for  him,  whom  he  did 
marry.  She  is  a  wise  little  woman  ;  not  intel- 
lectual, no,  that  is  a  very  different  thing,  but 
wise — wise  in  her  management  of  Stacey.  I 
don't  know,"  the  great  man  went  on  reflec- 
tively, "  that  she  even  has  a  temper,  and  yet,  I 
fancy  she  could  dust  Stacey's  jacket  for  him  if 
need  be." 

"  And  you  don't  consider  their  marriage  a 
failure,  Sir  John  ?  " 

"  Stacey's  marriage  a  failure !  Good  God, 
madam,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  Stacey's 
twice  the  man*  he  was  before  he  married  that 
little  woman.  I  always  regard  her  as  the 
pivot  around  which  all  the  brilliant  gems  of 
Stacey's  intellect  revolve.  And  it  is  neces- 
sary, madam,  for  gems  of  intellect  to  have  a 
pivot  that  they  can  safely  and  rationally  re- 
volve round.  And  between  ourselves — and 
not  between  ourselves  for  the  matter  of  that — 


On  the  Top  of  the  Tide          169 

I  have  always  looked  upon  it  as  a  very  lucky 
thing  for  Alan  Stacey  that  he  happened  to 
meet  with  the  very  woman  who  could  make 
all  the  difference  in  the  world  to  him  I " 


CHAPTEK  XII 

AN  ITEM  OF  NEWS 

IT  was  just  three  years  after  her  marriage 
with  Alan  Stacey,  that  Mary  came  downstairs 
one  morning  into  the  long,  low-ceiled  dining- 
room  where  breakfast  was  awaiting  her.  She 
received  the  noisy  greeting  of  the  rough-haired 
terrier  with  a  kindly  pat  on  the  head,  stooped 
and  ruffled  the  fur  of  the  great  Angora  cat  as 
he  lay  before  the  cheerful  fire.  She  turned  to 
the  manservant  when  he  came  in. 

"  Oh,  John,  Mr.  Stacey  has  a  headache  this 
morning — the  worst  he  has  had  for  months — 
he  says  he  will  take  no  more  than  a  cup  of  tea 
and  two  bits  of  dry  toast." 

"Indeed,  ma'am,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that," 
said  John,  in  a  sympathetic  tone.  "  It's  a  long 

170 


An  Item  of  News 


171 


time  since  the  master  has  had  a  real  bad  head- 
ache. Thank  you,  ma'am,"  as  she  poured  out 
the  large  cup  of  tea. 

Mary  sat  down  in  her  place  and  poured  out 
her  own  tea.  She  was  not  worried  or  upset  at 
her  husband's  indisposition,  because  he  was  a 
man  who  had  all  his  life  suffered  occasionally 
from  violent  headaches,  and  he  declared  that 
since  his  marriage  they  had  been  much  less 
frequent  than  formerly.  She  helped  herself  to 
some  kedgeree,  and  opened  one  by  one  the 
pile  of  letters  beside  her  plate,  smiling  over 
their  contents  now  and  then,  as  if  she  found 
the  news  they  contained  pleasant.  Then, 
these  disposed  of,  she  took  a  second  helping  of 
the  kedgeree — which  was  unusually  good — 
and  opened  the  newspaper,  setting  it  up 
against  the  teapot  for  the  greater  convenience 
of  being  able  to  eat  and  read  at  the  same  time. 
Like  all  women  she  read  the  first  column  to 


lj2  Wedlock 

begin  with,  then  turned  the  paper  over  to  the 
middle  sheet.  In  one  moment  the  whole  at- 
mosphere and  attitude  of  her  life  was  changed, 
for  there,  in  staring  letters  before  her,  was  the 
heading  "  Survivors  of  the  Arikkama" 

She  caught  the  paper  up  from  its  position 
against  the  teapot,  and  thrust  it  down  be- 
tween the  table  and  her  knee,  going  on  me- 
chanically eating  her  breakfast,  as  if  by  so 
doing  she  could  keep  the  suspicious  announce- 
ment at  arms'  length.  Then  she  found  that 
although  she  had  gone  on  eating  she  would 
not  swallow  the  food  that  was  in  her  mouth, 
and  as  she  came  to  a  realization  of  the  fact, 
she  choked  the  mouthful  down  and  pushed  her 
plate  away. 

"Survivors  of  the  Arikhama!"  Good 
Heavens !  "What  did  these  four  words  imply  ? 
"  Survivors  of  the  Arikhama !  "  "  Oh,  my 
God,  not  that,  not  that!"  she  moaned  out, 


An  Item  of  News  173 

putting  her  hands  up  to  her  head  and  staring 
hard  at  the  opposite  wall.  "Not  that,  not 
that ! " 

"  Survivors  of  the  AriTchama  !  "  The  trend 
of  thoughts  which  the  words  called  up  was 
hideous — hideous — hideous.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  he  was  alive !  She  passed  her  hands  over 
her  face  to  clear  her  eyes  from  the  mist 
that  danced  before  them.  Her  blood  ran  cold ; 
her  flesh  seemed  to  turn  chill;  her  heart  to 
have  stopped  its  motion ;  only  her  terrible 
thoughts  went  whirling,  whirling,  whirling  on 
— to  what  ?  To  the  fact  that  Edward  Conway 
might  be  one  of  the  survivors  of  the  Arik- 
hama! 

She  looked  down  at  the  paper  crushed  upon 
her  knee.  "  I  daren't  read  it ;  I  daren't  read 
it ;  I  will  put  it  in  the  fire  as  it  is.  It  will  be 
better  not  to  know  !  Oh,  my  God,  what  shall 
I  do  ? "  The  survivors  of  the  AriTchama  ! 


174  Wedlock 

Where  had  they  been  ?     Years  had  gone  by ! 

"Oh,  this  is  folly— folly!  Pull  yourself 
together,  Mary  Stacey,  pull  yourself  together ; 
nerve  yourself,  woman ;  don't  be  a  coward ; 
face  the  worst,  know  the  worst  and  get  it 
over.  Anything  is  better  than  suspicions,  and 
the  paper  will  tell  you ! " 

So  she  took  up  the  paper  with  nerveless, 
shaking  fingers,  smoothed  it  out  and  bent  her 
eyes  upon  it.  They  refused  their  office. 
Merciful  nature  spread  a  curtain  between  her 
palpitating  heart,  her  dazed  brain,  and  the 
cruel  news  which  the  printed  columns  brought. 
She  could  see  nothing. 

She  shook  herself  together.  "  This  is  fool- 
ish," her  heart  said ;  "  you  are  unnerved,  Mary 
Stacey;  rub  your  eyes  hard  and  don't  be  a 
coward.  Read  the  notice." 

Slowly  the  printed  words  appeared  through 
the  mist — the  merciful  mist — "/Survivors  of 


An  Item  of  News 

the  Arikhama"  And  then  the  paragraph 
went  on  to  tell  this  wondrous  tale  of  the  sea. 
How  a  sailing  brig,  under  stress  of  weather, 
had  found  herself  driven  upon  a  rocky  islet  in 
the  far  Pacific.  It  was  not  an  unknown 
island  but  an  uninhabited  one,  being  too  far 
out  of  the  ordinary  track  of  vessels,  and  too 
small  and  poor  in  quality  of  land,  to  make  it 
worth  while  for  any  one  to  settle  there.  The 
sailing  vessel,  finding  herself  driven  very  near, 
put  in  to  renew  her  stores  of  water,  and,  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  captain  and  crew, 
discovered  three  men  and  a  dog  in  possession 
of  the  island.  These  were  the  captain  and 
two  of  the  crew  of  the  ill-fated  steamship 
Arikhama,  who,  after  drifting  about  in  an 
open  boat  for  many  weeks,  and  suffering  un- 
heard-of privations,  had  found  themselves 
tossed  upon  this  far-off  strand,  which  had  been 
to  them,  for  nearly  six  years,  a  living  grave. 


176  Wedlock 

Captain  Conway  and  the  two  seamen  were 
the  only  three  out  of  nine  who  had  survived 
the  hardships  and  privations  of  that  long  and 
terrible  voyage  and  the  cruel  life  of  isolation 
which  followed.  Then  came  a  description  of 
how  the  rescued  men  had  lived.  Penguins' 
eggs,  occasional  fish,  and  roots  of  various 
kinds,  had  formed  their  chief  sustenance. 
The  whole  account  ended  with  details  of  how 
the  three  men  had  wept  like  madmen  on  meet- 
ing their  rescuers,  and  the  concluding  sentence 
said — "  When  we  tell  our  readers  that  Captain 
Con  way  had  only  been  married  a  few  months 
when  he  set  out  on  the  Arikhama's  last  ill- 
fated  voyage,  it  will  easily  be  understood  that 
his  anxiety  to  have  news  of  his  wife  was  ovei^ 
powering.  The  captain  and  crew  of  the 
Lively  Jeanie,  however,  were  not  able  to 
satisfy  him  on  this  point,  but  they  sailed  the 
following  day  for  Melbourne,  and  Captain 


An  Item  of  News  177 

Conway  will  set  sail  for  home  immediately  on 
arrival  at  that  port." 

So  she  knew  the  worst,  and  worse  than  the 
worst  could  not  be.  So  all  her  new-found 
happiness  had  fallen  about  her  ears  like  a 
house  of  cards.  All  was  at  an  end  ! 

She  sat  there  still  holding  the  paper,  staring 
with  wild  eyes  round  the  luxurious  room.  So 
her  happiness  had  all  come  to  an  end.  Her 
radiant  life  was  over.  She  who  had  been  for 
three  blessed  years  Alan  Stacey's  honored  and 
devoted  wife,  must  be  outcast — outcast !  She 
repeated  the  word  over  and  over  again  to  her- 
self, as  if  to  try  by  repetition  to  din  its  mean- 
ing into  her  bewildered  brain.  Could  it  be 
true  ?  Yes.  That  heading  still  stared  at  her 
— "Survivors  of  the  Arikhama"  She  had 
read  the  account.  There  was  Edward  Con- 
way's  name.  It  was  all  true — too  true.  And 
upstairs,  ill  and  prostrate,  lay  the  man  who 


i78  Wedlock 

had  come  to  be  all  the  world  to  her  ;  the  man 
who  had  taken  her,  poor  and  alone  as  she  was, 
and  made  her  the  mistress  of  his  heart  and  of 
his  home.  And  he  was  ignorant !  She  would 
have  to  tell  him — to  tell  him  that  she  was  not 
his  wife — to  tell  him  that  she  was  the  wife, 
and  not  the  widow,  of  the  man  who  had 
bought  her  with  a  price,  who  had  outraged 
her,  who  had  struck  her ! 

And  he  had  told  that  story  of  how  he  had 
been  only  a  few  months  married  to  a  young 
wife  !  She  wondered  bitterly  whether  he  had 
told  them  that  he  had  so  far  forgotten  his  mar- 
riage vows  that  he  had  struck  the  young  wife 
in  those  early  days  of  their  marriage  ?  Three 
years — three  years — three  wholly  blessed  years 
without  one  sad  thought,  without  one  harsh 
word,  without  one  regret.  Three  years  of 
pure  and  unalloyed  happiness.  "Well,  she  would 
always  have  that  to  look  back  to.  Perhaps 


An  Item  of  News  179 

she  ought  not  to  grumble,  or  to  be  surprised 
that  fate  had  been  minded  to  bring  her  happi- 
ness to  an  end.  It  was  like  the  registration  of 
sunshine  in  London.  Some  people  got  a  little 
happiness  filtered  out  in  driblets  over  a  long 
life  of  great  dulness;  she  had  had  three 
blessed  years  of  glory,  and  now  the  time  would 
be  all  grey,  like  a  London  fog.  She  had  regis- 
tered three  years  of  sunshine,  and  like  poor 
London,  she  must  put  in  the  average  of  mist 
and  fog. 

She  sat  for  some  little  time  longer,  indeed, 
until  John  came  to  clear  the  table.  Then, 
from  some  woman's  instinct  of  hiding  the 
tragedy  through  which  she  was  passing,  she 
rose  and  carried  the  paper  to  the  fire,  and 
stood  there  reading  an  account  of  the  fancy 
dress  ball  given  by  the  Lady  Mayoress  of  Lon- 
don, aye,  and  reading  it  attentively.  They 
had  been  present  thereat.  Her  dress  was  de- 


l8o  Wedlock 

scribed — her  dress  and  Alan's — almost  side  by 
side  with  the  words  which  told  of  the  rescue 
of  the  survivors  of  the  Arikhama. 

Then  John  betook  himself  away,  and  she 
was  once  more  left  alone.  She  formed  no 
plans,  her  dazed  brain  refused  to  take  in  any- 
thing more  than  the  stern  and  bare  facts.  Ed- 
ward Con  way  was  alive — on  his  way  home — 
eager  and  anxious  to  find  her.  And  she  was 
here,  in  the  old  Fulham  house,  masquerading 
to  the  world  as  Alan  Stacey's  honored  wife ! 

And  Alan  would  have  to  be  told !  He  would 
have  to  see  the  papers ;  he  would  have  to  de- 
cide where  she  was  to  go,  what  she  was  to  do, 
how  she  could  best  hide  herself  from  the  mon- 
ster who  had  legal  right  over  her. 

She  was  still  sitting  there,  when  eleven 
strokes  of  the  clock  warned  her  that  the  morn- 
ing was  passing — when  they  should  have 
warned  her,  for  Mary  did  not  move  from  her 


An  Item  of  News  181 

place  beside  the  fire.     Then  a  smart  housemaid 
came  in  with  a  message. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  master  is  much  better,  and 
if  you  have  quite  done  with  the  paper,  he 
would  be  glad  if  you  would  send  it  upstairs  to 
him." 


CHAPTEK  XIII 

CONCEALING    LAWFUL  NEWS. 

MAEY'3  first  instinct  was  to  carry  the  paper 
upstairs  to  Alan  Stacey  herself,  to  break  the 
news  to  him  there  and  then.  But  hard  upon 
the  heels  of  this  thought  canie  another.  That 
he  was  but  just  over  a  very  violent  headache, 
and  it  would  be  cruel  to  tell  him  that  moment. 
She  therefore  whisked  out  the  middle  page, 
and  gave  the  rest  of  the  paper  to  the  maid. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Stacey  that  I  will  come  up  in  a 
few  minutes,"  she  said. 

When  the  servant  had  left  the  room  her  first 
thought  was  how  she  could  best  conceal  that 
part  of  the  paper  from  Alan.  Then  she  ran  to 
the  door. 

"  Alice,    Alice — come    back ! "    she    called. 

182 


Concealing  Lawful  News          183 

"  Give  me  the  paper.  I  will  go  up  to  Mr.  Sta- 
cey  myself." 

But  she  did  not  go  up  at  once.  She  turned 
back  into  the  dining-room,  and  deliberately 
tore  the  sheet  containing  the  telegram  across, 
so  that  the  corner  where  the  account  of  the 
rescue  of  the  survivors  of  the  Arikhatna  had 
been  was  gone.  This  she  threw  into  the  fire. 
Then  she  went  up  the  wide  shallow  stairs  and 
turned  in  at  her  bedroom  door. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  as 
much  like  her  natural  voice  as  supreme  effort 
could  make  it,  "I  really  don't  think  that 
you  ought  to  be  reading  the  newspaper — 
particularly  lying  down  in  bed — let  me  read 
to  you." 

She  sat  down  by  the  fire  with  her  back  to 
the  light.  Alan  Stacey  lay  back  among  his 
pillows  idly  enough. 

"  I  don't  care  about  reading,  so  long  as  you'll 


184  Wedlock 

sit  there  and  talk  to  me,"  he  said,  lazily.  "  Is 
there  anything  in  the  paper  ?  " 

" — ISTo-o ;  an  account  of  the  ball  last  night, 
with  our  noble  names  in  the  paragraph.  All 
the  rest  is  pretty  much  as  usual." 

She  glanced  down  the  day  by  day  column ; 
gave  him  a  list  of  all  the  items  of  news  that 
might  in  any  way  serve  to  interest  him ;  and 
after  that  they  talked  for  a  little  while ;  and 
then  Alan  Stacey  said  that  he  might  as  well 
get  up  as  lie  idling  there,  and  Mary  went 
downstairs  again,  carrying  the  paper  in  her 
hand — carrying  also  her  burden  with  her ; 
carrying  with  her  the  knowledge  and  the  con- 
viction that  he  would  have  to  be  told ;  that 
she  must  be  the  one  to  break  the  news  to  him ; 
that  there  must  be  no  shirking  it,  no  getting 
out  of  it ;  that  it  was  a  task  which  lay  right 
in  front  of  her,  a  task  which  she  must  accom- 
plish— and  the  sooner  the  better. 


Concealing  Lawful  News          185 

Then  she  remembered  that  if  she  told  him 
Alan  would  naturally  ask  to  see  the  paper 
containing  the  news.  But  she  had  burned  it ! 
She  felt — so  strangely  are  we  moved  by  trifles 
in  times  of  great  difficulty — that  she  could  not 
endure  to  let  him  know  that  her  first  thought* 
had  been  to  hide  the  truth  from  him.  Then 
how  was  she  to  account  to  him  for  having  de- 
stroyed that  part  of  the  paper  ?  Should  she 
send  out  and  get  another  copy  ?  She  did  not 
like  to  do  that ;  nor  did  she  like  to  go  herself 
— it  would  look  so  strange. 

And  then  the  thought  came  to  her — Why 
tell  him  at  all  ?  Why  say  anything  about  it  ? 
Why  break  up  and  destroy  their  intense  hap- 
piness ?  Nothing  could  be  wider  apart  than 
the  lives  led  by  Edward  Conway  and  Alan 
Stacey's  wife.  Why  admit  that  she  had  seen 
the  news  that  part  of  the  crew  of  the  Ari- 
khama  had  been  rescued?  Just  now  when 


186  Wedlock 

Alan  was  showing  signs  of  over-work  and 
about  to  take  a  holiday  it  would  be  cruel  to 
deal  him  such  a  blow.  A  few  weeks  longer  in 
her  sunshine  would  make  no  difference  to  any- 
body but  herself.  Alan  would  never  know- 
Edward  Con  way  need  never  know — that  she 
had  been  aware  all  along  that  three  men  be- 
longing to  the  Arikhama  had  been  rescued  off 
an  uninhabited  island  in  the  Pacific  Ocean. 
Why  should  she  say  anything  ?  Why  should 
she  not  at  least  let  Alan  finish  his  book — the 
greatest  book  he  had  ever  done — take  his 
holiday ;  and  if  the  blow  fell  then — why,  he 
would  be  the  better  prepared  to  meet  it.  It 
would  be  bad  enough  if  Edward  Conway  dis- 
covered her,  and  the  secret  could  not  be  kept 
any  longer. 

Having  thus  made  up  her  mind  to  keep  the 
news  which  had  reached  her  to  herself,  she 
acted  immediately.  She  destroyed  the  torn 


Concealing  Lawful  News          187 

sheet  of  the  paper,  and  thrust  the  part  which 
remained  carelessly  into  the  rack  with  the 
other  journals,  trusting  to  her  own  wit  to  keep 
Alan  from  wishing  to  look  at  it  during  the 
day.  It  was  an  off  day  with  the  young  lady 
who  typed  to  her  dictation,  so  that  she  was 
free  of  any  tie  of  work.  She  set  herself  to  do 
some  needle-work,  in  order  that  she  might 
look  occupied  when  Alan  made  his  appearance, 
and  she  sat  near  the  window  stitching  indus- 
triously, while  her  mind  went  over  and  over 
again  such  shreds  of  self-justification  as 
she  could  find  to  salve  her  conscience.  She 
told  herself  that  it  was  not  as  if  she  had  gone 
into  an  irregular  union  with  her  eyes  open. 
She  had  truely  and  honestly  believed  herself 
to  be  Edward  Con  way's  widow ;  and  her  mar- 
riage with  Alan  was  her  real  marriage.  What 
was  it  they  said  ?  "I  require  and  charge  you 
both,  as  ye  will  answer  at  the  dreadful  day  of 


188  Wedlock 

Judgment  when  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall 
be  disclosed  if  either  of  you  know  of  any  im- 
pediment why  ye  may  not  lawfully  be  joined 
together  in  matrimony,  ye  do  now  confess  it." 
Then  came  these  impressive  words — "  Those 
whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man 
put  asunder."  Surely,  surely  God  had  joined 
them ;  surely,  surely,  it  had  been  by  the  per- 
mission of  God  that  such  a  blaze  of  pure  and 
innocent  joy  and  glory  had  come  into  her  life ; 
surely  she  would  be  doing  right  to  continue 
such  a  union.  The  most  fanatical  and  bigotted 
lover  of  conventionalism  could  never  wish 
that  she  should  go  back  to  live  the  life  of 
shame  and  degradation  which  had  been  hers 
during  those  few  months  after  her  first  mar- 
riage— after  that  barbarous  sale  of  herself  into 
which  she  had  been  driven  by  circumstances 
absolutely  beyond  her  control. 

Alan  Stacey  came  down  presently,  and  when 


Concealing  Lawful  News          189 

Mary  noticed  how  haggard  and  ill  he  was 
looking,  she  thanked  heaven  that  she  had  kept 
the  news  of  Edward  Con  way's  survival  to  her- 
self. She  exerted  herself  in  every  possible 
way  to  please  him ;  coaxing  him  to  eat  when 
lunch  time  came,  and  being  seemingly  in  the 
gayest  and  brightest  of  spirits.  But  nothing 
served  to  rouse  him  from  the  dull  depression 
which  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  him. 

"I  believe  you  ought  to  have  stayed  in 
bed,"  she  said  at  last,  as  he  sat  moping  and 
shivering  over  the  fire. 

"  No ;  I'm  better  up,"  he  answered. 

"  The  book  is  weighing  on  your  mind,  dear- 
est." 

"Horribly,"  he  replied — "horribly.  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  never  finish  it." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that.  You've  been  burning 
the  candle  at  both  ends.  You  cannot  do  this 
work  and  go  to  fancy  dress  balls  at  the  same 


190  Wedlock 

time.  Why  not  let  us  slip  away  and  finish  it 
quietly  somewhere  ?  Supposing  that  we  pack 
up  and  go  to  some  quiet  little  place  where  we 
can  work  in  peace  and  comfort;  and,  after 
that,  we  will  go  off  on  our  long  holiday  ?  " 

He  caught  at  the  suggestion  eagerly. 

"That's  a  good  idea,  Mary,"  he  replied; 
"that's  a  very  good  idea.  You'll  take  little 
Miss  Winnington  down  with  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  because  there's  a  good  lot  to  do 
yet.  Oh,  yes,  we  would  have  her  down  there 
with  us.  But  the  change,  the  fresh  air,  the 
sea,  the  restf ulness,  would  all  be  very  good  for 
you,  and  would  help  you  to  finish  it  with  half 
the  effort  it  would  be  if  we  stayed  at  home. 
Shall  we  go  off  at  once  ?  " 

"As  soon  as  ever  you  like,"  he  replied. 
"  "Where  shall  we  go  ?  Let  us  try  some  part  of 
Cornwall." 

"  Well,  dear,  there's  that  little  place  that  the 


Concealing  Lawful  News          191 

Alec  Dugdales  went  to.  They  said  the  inn 
was  so  comfortable,  and  the  cooking  so  good, 
and  the  little  place  so  primitive  and  yet  so 
sweet ;  and  boating,  and  fishing,  and  cycling, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing  you  could  do  in  per- 
fection. Don't  you  think  that  would  do  for 
us  ?  You  know  we  cannot  have  a  place  too 
quiet  until  we  are  through  the  book." 

"  I  think  it  would  do  splendidly.  Couldn't 
we  telegraph  to-day  and  go  down  to-morrow  ? 
Have  we  any  engagements  ?  " 

"We  have  no  dinners;  nothing  that  we 
couldn't  easily  break." 

"  Have  we  the  address  of  the  inn  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes ;  it  is  called  *  The  Powys  Arms.' " 
She  rang  the  bell,  and  then  went  to  the 
writing-table  to  get  the  book  of  telegraph 
forms. 

"  I  must  send  a  wire  to  Miss  "Winnington. 
Of  course,  if  she  is  not  quite  able  to  come  to- 


192  Wedlock 

morrow  she  might  come  down  the  day  after — 
which,  perhaps,  would  be  rather  better.  Oh, 
John,  we  are  going  down  to  Cornwall  to-mor- 
row for  a  week  or  two ;  I  want  you  to  send 
some  telegrams  off  at  once,  and  to  arrange  all 
Mr.  Stacey's  things." 

"Very  good,  ma'am.  You  will  take  the 
machines  down  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  and  what  about  your  fishing  rod, 
Alan  ?  There  is  very  good  fishing  down  there 
• — so  the  Dugdales  said." 

"  Then  I  had  better  take  my  tackle." 

"  Will  this  do,  Alan  ?  *  Have  you  rooms  va- 
cant, two  bedrooms,  two  sitting-rooms.  "Wanted 
for  to-morrow.  Reply  paid.' " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  he. 

She  scribbled  also  a  message  to  Miss  Win- 
nington,  and  when  John  had  departed  and  she 
was  looking  down  the  engagement  book  to  see 
whether  any  notes  of  excuse  would  be  neces- 


Concealing  Lawful  News          193 

saiy,  Alan  Stacey  got  up  and  began  walking 
restlessly  about  the  room.  At  last  he  stopped 
in  front  of  her  table. 

"  What  are  you  doing  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  was  just  looking  whether  I  should  have 
to  write  to  any  one — excuses,  you  know." 

He  stood  with  his  hands  thrust  deep  down 
into  his  trouser  pockets,  eyeing  her  approv- 
ingly. 

"You're  a  wonderful  little  woman,  Mary," 
he  said  in  a  very  tender  tone. 

She  smiled  up  at  him  and  put  out  her  hand 
to  touch  his. 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  so,"  she  said,  in  rather 
a  quavering  voice. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I  always  think  so," 
he  said,  passionately.  "It  was  the  luckiest 
day  of  my  whole  life,  when  I  met  you." 

"  And  what,"  said  she,  "  do  you  think  that 
it  must  have  been  for  me  ?  " 


1Q4  Wedlock 

She  was  at  that  moment  on  the  very  point 
of  breaking  down  and  telling  him  everything. 
Then  the  sound  of  the  sob  in  her  own  voice 
frightened  her.  No,  she  could  not,  must  not, 
dared  not,  tell  him  just  now ;  now,  when  he 
had  the  weight  of  a  great  book  upon  his  mind, 
the  anxiety  of  a  large  contract,  before  him  ; 
when  he  was  in  a  measure  nerve-broke,  and 
anxious  and  depressed.  No ;  she  must  keep 
the  secret,  at  least  for  a  time.  It  would  be 
selfish  to  do  otherwise.  She  owed  it,  even  if 
it  was  a  sin,  as  a  small  return  for  all  that  Alan 
Stacey  had  poured  out  at  her  feet ;  she  owed 
it  to  him.  In  this  instance  silence  was  her 
duty. 


CHAPTER  XIT 

FEOM  THE  COENEB  WINDOW 

As  the  train  steamed  out  of  Paddington 
Station  on  the  following  day,  Mary  gave  a 
great  sigh  of  relief;  and  Alan  Stacey,  whose 
spirits  had  gone  up  as  high  as  the  day  before 
they  had  been  low — for  he  was  like  all  people 
of  buoyant  disposition  subject  to  great  alter- 
nations of  temperament — moved  his  seat  over 
to  the  one  beside  her,  and  put  his  arm  round 
her  waist. 

"  Little  woman,"  he  said,  "  it  is  awfully  jolly 
to  be  going  out  of  London  again,  isn't  it,  even 
although  we  are  not  going  for  a  holiday  ?  By 
Jove,  that  was  a  good  idea  of  yours.  "What  a 
wise  little  head  you've  got!  I  should  have 
gone  on  fagging  my  heart  out  in  that  used  up 

195 


196  Wedlock 

atmosphere,  and  you  came  with  your  wonder- 
ful woman's  wit,  and  solved  the  question  in  an 
instant.  You  women  are  wonderful  crea- 
tures ! " 

She  did  not  say  very  much ;  she  nestled  up 
close  against  him  with  curiously  mingled  feel- 
ings. On  the  one  hand  she  felt  that  she  was 
leaving  her  troubles  behind  her ;  on  the  other 
that  she  was  only  putting  off  the  evil  day  for 
a  little  time.  She  felt  that  she  was  safe,  and 
yet  that  she  was  insecure.  She  had  gained 
breathing  time,  a  resting-place ;  but  that  one 
day  she  would  have  to  tell  Alan  Stacey  the 
truth  was  as  inevitable  as  that  one  day  she 
would  have  to  die. 

"  By  the  bye,  did  you  remember  to  tell  John 
to  send  the  papers  after  us  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not  tell  him,"  said  Mary. 

She  flushed  up  a  vivid,  guilty  scarlet,  for, 
truth  to  say,  she  had  purposely  refrained 


From  the  Corner  Window        197 

from  instructing  the  intelligent  John  on  this 
point. 

"  Oh !  Well,  of  course  we  can  easily  write 
and  tell  him  to  send  them,"  said  Alan.  "  All 
the  same,  I  don't  know  whether  newspapers 
are  not  rather  a  bore  than  otherwise." 

"You  see,"  said  she,  apologetically,  "we 
generally  go  to  hotels  where  there  are  papers." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  it  is  all  right ;  I  dare  say 
we  shall  be  much  better  without  them  if  we 
find  that  the  Powys  Arms  is  not  so  luxurious 
as  to  have  a  London  paper.  Let  us  try  it  at 
all  events." 

So  they  started  on  their  pilgrimage  without 
so  much  as  a  daily  paper  to  tell  them  what 
was  going  on  in  the  world. 

It  seemed  strange  to  Mary  herself  that  she 
was  not  more  eager  to  know  further  news  of 
the  survivors  of  the  Arikhama,  but  she  was 
truly  happier  not  to  know.  From  that  mo- 


198  Wedlock 

ment  she  flung  herself  into  the  present  with 
an  energy  which  was  intensely  pathetic,  and 
Alan  Stacey  was  more  hopelessly  in  love  with 
her  than  ever. 

She  had  arranged  with  Miss  "VVinnington  to 
be  in  readiness  to  come  if  she  should  send  for 
her  so  that  they  made  acquaintance  with  the 
little  Cornish  fishing  village  without  the  re- 
straint of  a  third  person.  They  were  like  two 
happy  children.  The  weather  was  lovely,  the 
air  soft  and  sweet ;  and  they  tramped  over  the 
golden  sands  and  prowled  among  the  rocks,  as 
if  never  a  care  existed  in  the  world — or  ever 
could  do. 

"  You  like  this  place,  sweetheart  ?  "  he  said 
to  her  on  the  evening  of  their  first  day. 

"  I  love  it,"  she  answered.  "  I  should  like 
to  stay  here  always.  Alan,  I  don't  believe 
that  a  place  like  the  Sycamores  is  good  for 
you.  It  is  too  flat,  too  much  shut  in  ;  there  is 


From  the  Corner  Window 


199 


not  air  enough  for  a  brain  worker.  Let  us 
give  up  London,  and  settle  ourselves  in  some 
such  place  as  this,  where  we  can  live  more  of 
the  ideal  life,  and  make  up  the  waste  as  fast  as 
we  create  it.  I  believe  it  would  be  good  for 
both  of  us.  There  is  that  sweet  old  place  we 
passed  among  the  trees  to-day — fancy  having 
that  for  one's  own.  Fancy  asking  one's  Lon- 
don friends  to  come  down  and  spend  a  week 
in  such  a  place  as  this !  "What  joy  it  would 
give ! " 

"Yes;  but  should  we  have  any  London 
friends  to  ask  if  we  settled  ourselves  here 
altogether  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  You  have  friends  all  over  the 
world ;  you  are  not  dependent  upon  London. 
Of  course  you  would  have  your  friends  just 
the  same." 

"And  you  would  really  like  to  leave  Ful- 
ham,  to  have  no  resting-place  in  town  ?  " 


2oo  Wedlock 

"  I  am  afraid  I  would,  Alan.  You  see,  I  am 
not  like  you ;  you  were  born  to  it ;  you  are 
well  used  to  the  rush,  and  turmoil  of  life.  1 
feel,  sometimes,  as  if  I  could  not  get  air,  as 
if  I  were  choking." 

"Everybody  feels  it  in  London,  my  dear; 
and  when  you've  got  air  and  are  not  choking, 
you  feel  bored  to  death ;  you  feel  you  would 
give  anything  to  be  back  again  in  the  place 
where  things  hum,  to  be  in  the  thick  of  the 
fray.  It  is  vegetation  to  spend  all  your  life 
in  a  quiet  place,  even  a  Paradise  like  this. 
But  I  tell  you  what  we  might  do.  I've  had 
my  doubts  about  the  Sycamores  for  some 
little  time.  We  might  move  into  a  flat — 
comparatively  small — and  take  a  cottage 
down  here  solely  for  work.  That  would  pay 
better  than  setting  up  our  tent  in  any  such 
place  as  this  altogether." 

"  A  cottage  one  could  turn  round  in,  Alan." 


From  the  Corner  Window        201 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  take  it  house  rent  is  not  very 
expensive  here.  At  all  events  we  will  look 
round  at  all  the  cottages  and  see  what  kind  of 
places  are  going.  And — we  must  see  first 
whether  I  can  work  in  the  dead  stillness  of  a 
country  life.  Somebody  or  other  called  it 
'  dead  stillness,'  didn't  they  ?  I  once  went 
down  into  the  country  to  do  a  very  special  bit 
of  work  that  I  wanted  in  a  hurry.  I  went 
down  with  Goggle-Eyes  to  a  farm  in  Surrey. 
I  came  back  at  the  end  of  a  week  dead  beat, 
and,  indeed,  I  -never  passed  a  week  in  such  a 
continual  din  in  my  life !  Did  you  know  be- 
fore that  horses  never  go  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense  ! " 

"It  is  true,"  said  he,  solemnly.  "Horses 
never  go  to  sleep ;  or,  if  they  do,  they  walk 
in  their  sleep.  My  bedroom  was  at  right 
angles  with  the  stables  where  the  farm  horses 
lived.  They  kicked  the  walls,  and  the  man- 


202  Wedlock 

gers,  and  the  floor  all  night  long.  I  used  to 
go  in  and  look  at  them  foddered  down  knee- 
deep  in  straw;  all  still,  silent,  quiet — except 
for  the  pulling  of  the  chains  through  the  iron 
rings  of  the  mangers.  But  as  soon  as  I  got 
into  bed  they  all  began,  and  they  were  never 
still  for  one  minute  until  cock-crow !  —  never ! 
At  half-past  three — or  earlier — the  poultry 
yard  began.  And  then  between  the  coming 
of  the  laborers,  and  the  flirting  of  the  young 
women — I  don't  know  what  they  did,  because 
the  men  did  the  milking — and  the  stentorian 
voice  of  the  farmer  bellowing  his  orders,  I 
never  got  any  rest  at  all.  Goggle-Eyes  slept 
through  it.  He  said  it  was  heavenly,  it  was 
so  tranquil!  I  believe  Goggle-Eyes  would 
sleep  through  the  Last  Judgment." 

However,  the  "  Powys  Arms  "  proved  to  be 
an  ideal  working-place  for  Alan  Stacey.  He 
flourished  and  throve,  and  the  work  grew 


From  the  Corner  Window        203 

apace,  and  Mary  was  more  than  ever  set  upon 
establishing  a  little  seaside  home  of  their  own, 
a  little  retreat  to  which  they  could  at  any  mo- 
ment retire  from  the  world. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  the  book  was 
finished,  and  little  Miss  Winnington  went 
back  to  London.  Alan  Stacey  and  Mary, 
however,  stayed  on  at  the  curious,  old-fash- 
ioned inn,  spending  their  days  in  boating 
and  fishing,  and  trying  to  make  up  their  minds 
in  what  part  of  the  world  they  should  spend 
their  holiday.  If  he  had  a  preference  it  was 
for  a  yacht ;  but  Mary  did  not  fall  very  en- 
thusiastically into  the  scheme,  and  he  had  al- 
ways a  lingering  fear  that  she  might  have  a 
special  reason  for  not  wishing  to  be  on  the 
sea.  Therefore  he  forbore  to  press  her  to 
consent  to  this  arrangement ;  for  Alan  Stacey 
would  have  done  anything  rather  than  in  any 
way  have  reminded  Mary  of  the  great  tragedy 


204  Wedlock 

which  had  freed  her  from  her  first  husband. 
They  talked  of  the  Italian  lakes,  of  the  regu- 
larly beaten  Riviera  track,  and  lastly  of  Biar- 
ritz, with  excursions  over  the  Spanish  frontier. 
Upon  that  they  practically  decided,  yet  they 
lingered  in  the  little  fishing  village,  from  sheer 
inability  to  tear  themselves  away. 

And  during  all  this  time  they  had  never 
seen  a  London  newspaper.  Several  times 
Alan  Stacey  had  said  in  joke  that  they  might 
as  well  be  dead  and  buried  for  all  the  news 
they  had  of  the  world;  and  almost  every  day 
he  declared  that  he  must  write  to  John  and 
tell  him  to  send  on  the  papers.  But  as  Mary 
did  not  write,  it  somehow  remained  undone ; 
and  they  continued  in  their  ignorance  of  pass- 
ing events. 

So  nearly  a  month  slipped  by. 

"  We  really  ought  to  make  a  move,  sweet- 
heart," said  Alan  one  afternoon,  when  they 


From  the  Corner  Window        205 

were  sitting  on  a  rock,  watching  the  sun  sink 
slowly  down  into  the  water. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary ;  "  but  it  has  been 
charming  here.  I  don't," — with  a  great 
sigh — "  I  don't  think  that  the  time  has  been 
wasted." 

"  My  dear  child,  no  time  could  be  wasted  to 
me  that  has  been  spent  with  you.  What  a 
thing  to  say !  Of  course  it  has  not  been 
wasted.  This  place  has  served  our  turn  well ; 
but  we  both  want  change — you  as  well  as  I. 
Do  you  know,  two  or  three  times  lately  I 
have  thought  you  looking  quite  careworn ; 
and  you  have  nothing,"  looking  at  her  anx- 
iously and  searchingly,  "you  have  nothing  to 
be  careworn  about  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Mary.  She  could  feel  the 
sob  in  her  throat ;  she  wondered  that  he  did 
not  hear  it.  "  I  think  you  are  right,"  she  said 
after  a  moment,  "  and  that  it  is  time  that  we 


206  Wedlock 

were  moving  on.  You  have  quite  decided  on 
Biarritz,  Alan  ?  " 

"As  well  as  any  other  place.  We  have 
never  been  there ;  they  say  it  is  bright,  and 
gay,  and  exhilarating.  If  we  don't  like  it,  we 
can  move  on  somewhere  else." 

"  Then  we  will  go  home  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  think  we  may  as  well,"  he  replied. 

So  she  set  about  packing  up  her  few  belong- 
ings. She  had  taken  only  the  most  plain  and 
simple  serge  gowns  with  her.  A  single  trunk 
held  everything  that  she  had.  She  packed  a 
good  deal  that  evening,  and  in  the  morning 
she  got  up  early  and  finished  it  off  before 
breakfast  time. 

"  I.  will  just  run  down  the  village,"  said 
Alan,  "  and  settle  up  with  Jan  Trevethick,  and 
by  that  time  you  will  be  ready  for  breakfast." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  ready,"  said  Mary,  smiling 
at  him. 


From  the  Corner  Window        207 

She  watched  him  go  down  the  village  street, 
with  eyes  full  of  pride  and  love.  What  a  man 
he  was !  With  what  a  swing  he  walked,  with 
what  careless,  easy  grace  of  carriage ;  a  man 
every  inch  of  him.  She  was  sorry  to  leave 
the  dear  little  Cornish  village,  and  yet,  she 
felt  that  the  pleasant  Basque  town  would  be 
at  once  a  change  and  a  relief  from  the  mo- 
notony of  the  life  that  they  were  then  lead- 
ing. She  dreaded  that  one  day  Alan  would 
wake  up  to  dulness,  for  that,  she  well  knew, 
would  be  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  their 
love.  Yes ;  for  both  their  sakes  it  was  better 
that  they  should  go  to  Biarritz  and  be  gay. 
She  would  be  quite  safe  there.  Edward 
Conway,  if  he  was  really  seeking  for  her, 
would  never  look  for  her  in  such  a  place  as 
that.  If  he  was  on  her  track  he  would  find 
her  as  well  at  St.  Agnes  as  he  would  find  her 
at  Biarritz. 


208  Wedlock 

There ;  that  was  the  last !  She  shut  down 
the  lid  of  her  dress-basket  with  an  air  of 
satisfaction.  Alan's  portmanteau  she  had 
finished  half  an  hour  before.  She  would  put 
her  hat  and  gloves  there  on  the  dressing- 
table,  so  that  she  would  only  just  have  to  run 
upstairs  and  fetch  them  after  breakfast.  She 
glanced  at  her  watch.  Oh,  he  had  had  plenty 
of  time  to  get  back  from  seeing  the  old  boat- 
man, and  she  turned  to  the  window  to  look 
whether  he  were  not  coming.  She  only  gave 
one  glance.  The  window  was  at  the  end  of 
the  room,  and  commanded  a  full  view  of  the 
irregular  cobble-paved  street.  And  as  Mary's 
eyes  were  turned  to  look  along  it,  she  saw 
Alan  Stacey  and  Edward  Conway  walking  up 
the  road  together. 


CHAPTER  XT 

TO   THE  BITTER  END 

MAKY  only  gave  one  horrified  glance  along 
the  village  street,  ere  she  cowered  back 
behind  the  shelter  of  the  white  dimity  cur- 
tains. 

Yes;  it  was  he!  The  man  who  in  law 
owned  her;  the  man  who  had  bought  her 
with  a  price ;  the  man  who  had  treated  her  as 
a  bond-slave.  He  was  not  very  much  changed. 
His  hair  and  beard  were  white,  but  his  face 
was  just  as  weather-beaten  as  of  yore,  and  his 
gait  had  the  same  pronounced  sailor's  roll. 
He  was  apparently  talking  excitedly,  and  was 
gesticulating  wildly  with  his  hands.  Alan 
was  listening,  as  he  lounged  along  with  his 
hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  jacket  and  his  pipe 
between  his  teeth. 

209 


2io  Wedlock 

The  figures  of  the  two  men  passed  under 
the  window  and  out  of  her  sight,  but  Mary 
stood  there  like  a  woman  who  was  petrified. 
Stood  their,  holding  for  support  to  the  frail 
curtain,  waiting  for  the  blow  to  fall.  She 
waited,  as  Marie  Antionette  may  have  waited 
under  the  guillotine.  In  five  minutes  it  will  be 
all  over  ;  in  four ;  in  three ;  in  two ;  in  one.  It 
was  close  at  hand  .  .  .  about  to  fall.  Yes  ! 
She  tore  herself  away  from  the  support  of  the 
curtain  as  she  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stair. 
Then  Alan  entered  the  room. 

"  Well,  sweetheart,  are  you  not  nearly  ready 
for  breakfast  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  over- 
powering sense  of  relief,  almost  broke  her 
down.  She  caught  hold  of  the  dressing-table  to 
steady  herself,  but  for  a  second  or  two  could  not 
speak.  At  last  she  choked  down  the  great 
knot  in  her  throat,  and  asked  him  a  question. 


To  the  Bitter  End  211 

"Who  was  that  you  came  up  the  street 
with?" 

He  never  looked  at  her  as  he  answered.  He 
was  doing  something  to  his  pipe. 

"  Oh,  a  chap  who  asked  the  way ;  that  was 
all." 

"  The  way  to  where  ?  " 

"  I  directed  him  to  Eoathlyn.  He  is  half 
way  there  by  this  time.  Come,  let  us  go 
down  and  get  our  breakfast." 

She  felt  that  the  risk  was  immense.  She 
Vvondered  what  Edward  Conway  was  doing  in 
that  part  of  Cornwall  ?  She  had  never  heard 
him  speak  of  having  been  in  Cornwall;  she 
had  never  heard  of  his  having  any  connection 
with  any  one  in  Cornwall  or  with  Cornish 
people.  And  then  she  reminded  herself,  half 
bitterly,  that  she  had  known  very  little  of  him 
at  all.  But  what  was  he  doing  here  in  St. 
Agnes  ?  It  was  no  use  shirking  the  situation ; 


2 1 2  Wedlock 

she  must  dare  and  risk  all  at  this  juncture. 
Nothing  would  be  gained  by  cowardice.  And, 
after  all,  he  could  never  force  her  to  go  back 
to  him.  He  could  only,  at  the  very  worst,  ex- 
pose her ;  and  in  her  case  exposure  would 
mean  the  world's  pity,  never  its  scorn. 

She  drew  her  breath  sharp  between  her 
teeth,  took  her  handkerchief  off  the  dressing- 
table,  and  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room 
and  down  the  stairs,  Alan  Stacey  following. 
And  in  the  best  parlor  their  breakfast  was 
laid,  and  in  two  minutes  the  delicate  fried  fish 
and  golden  fresh  eggs  were  brought  in. 

"  Fish  or  eggs  and  bacon,  sweetheart  ? " 
said  Stacey,  as  the  apple-cheeked  maid  lifted 
the  covers  of  the  two  dishes. 

"Eggs  and  bacon,  thank  you,  Alan,"  she 
replied. 

She  had  never  in  her  life  felt  less  like  eat- 
ing, but  it  would  not  do  to  arouse  suspicion  by 


To  the  Bitter  End  213 

refusing  to  try  to  do  so.  She  poured  out 
the  coffee,  and  listened  with  a  smile,  that  was 
not  very  real,  while  Alan  told  her  of  his  fare- 
well to  the  old  boatman. 

At  last  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her 
across  the  table. 

"  Sweetheart,"  he  said,  "  you  are  quite  sad 
at  going  away.  Would  you  rather  stop 
here  ?  " 

She  answered  him  all  in  a  hurry.  "  Oh,  no, 
Alan,  no,  no;  I  am  all  packed  and  ready. 
Don't  suggest  such  a  thing.  What  should 
make  you  give  me  such  a  Lot's  Wife  character 
as  that?  I  much  prefer  to  be  going  away. 
We  have  been  here  quite  long  enough.  It 
is  a  dear  little  place,  and  you  know  I  always 
want  to  stay  in  a  new  place  forever,  it  is  one 
of  my  characteristics ;  but  I  think  I  get  tired 
of  them— I  think  I  use  them  up.  I  don't  be- 
lieve  I  shall  want  to  come  to  St.  Agnes  again." 


214  Wedlock 

"  Not  even  to  have  the  cottage  ?  " 

"  No,"  trying  hard  to  repress  a  shudder. 
"No,  not  even  to  have  the  cottage,  Alan. 
After  all,  I  think  you  are  right ;  there  is  no 
place  like  London.  We  will  stay  at  home  a 
few  days  before  we  go  on?  What  do  you 
think?" 

"  Just  as  you  please.  I  don't  see  why  we 
shouldn't." 

"Nor  I,"  said  she.  For  the  thought  had 
come  to  her,  that  if  Edward  Conway  was 
hunting  her  down,  there  is  no  place  in  the 
world  where  you  can  keep  yourself  hidden  so 
easily  as  in  London.  Nor  would  it  be  easy  to 
find  her,  for  she  had  not  a  single  friend  or  ac- 
quaintance who  had  known  her  at  the  time  of 
Captain  Conway's  supposed  death.  At  the 
time  of  her  second  marriage  she  would  have 
written  to  Mr.  Lawson — to  whom  she  had 
only  a  few  weeks  before  repaid  the  last  in- 


To  the  Bitter  End  215 

stalment  of  the  hundred  pounds  at  what 
pinching  effort  she  alone  knew.  But  he  had 
just  died,  and  with  the  other  officials  of  the 
Eed  Kiver  Line  she  had  no  acquaintance. 
So  long  as  she  did  not  walk  abroad  there  was 
but  very  little  chance  of  her  stumbling  against 
her  pursuer.  Here,  on  the  contrary,  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of 
any  one  whom  you  did  not  want  to  see.  Pres- 
ently she  would  have  to  drive  three  miles  to 
the  station,  not,  mercifully  along  the  road  to 
Roathlyn,  but  in  the  opposite  direction.  Still, 
it  was  possible  that  he  might  have  changed 
his  mind  ;  and  in  any  case  she  would  not  feel 
absolutely  secure  until  she  was  out  of  the 
neighborhood,  until  she  was  out  of  this  deso- 
lation of  woods  and  fields  and  into  the  safe 
shelter  of  the  great  city. 

For  one  wild  moment  she  wished  with  all  her 
heart  that  she  had  told  Alan  when  the  news 


216  Wedlock 

of  Edward  Conway's  rescue  first  reached  her. 
But  now  that  she  had  come  face  to  face  with 
the  terrible  and  awful  tragedy  which  would 
end — God  alone  knew  how — she  did  not  dare 
to  speak.  As  she  sat  there,  trying  to  force 
the  egg  and  the  delicate  strips  of  bacon  bit  by 
bit  down  her  throat,  she  recalled  the  very  first 
time  that  she  had  ever  seen  him.  How  he 
had  refused  with  absolute  scorn  to  enquire 
into  her  character,  how  he  had  told  her  that 
honesty  was  the  dominant  note  of  her  life — • 
that  she  had  many  times  given  herself  away 
by  being  too  honest,  by  not  being  able  to  tell, 
at  the  right  moment,  the  harmless,  necessary 
lie. 

And  if  I  tell  the  truth,  I  must  needs  confess 
that  she  was,  at  this  juncture,  afraid  to  tell 
him — afraid  to  own  that  she  had  shared  his 
life  and  love  while  the  barrier  of  a  great  secret 
lay  between  them.  She  told  herself  that  it 


To  the  Bitter  End  217 

would  have  been  so  easy  to  carry  the  news 
straight  to  him  then,  that  day  when  her  hor- 
rified eyes  had  first  fallen  upon  that  announce- 
ment in  the  papers  which  was  headed  :  "  Sur- 
vivors of  the  AriMama"  It  was  not  easy 
then ;  now  it  was  almost  impossible.  She  felt 
that  she  could  not  face  the  look  of  surprise  in 
his  eyes ;  she  felt  that  if  everything  came  out, 
and  he  should  ask  her  to  stay  with  him,  that 
he  could  no  longer  ask  it  as  a  favor.  So  more 
and  more  she  realized  the  need  of  keeping  it 
all  a  dead  secret,  of  hiding  from  Edward  Con- 
way  as  long  as  she  could,  and  of  trusting  to 
blind  chance  and  Providence  to  free  her — 
to  free  her,  this  time,  beyond  all  shadow  of 
doubt. 

There  were  still  some  trivial  arrangements 
for  Alan  to  make  when  they  had  finished 
breakfast.  Gratuities  to  be  given,  one  or  two 
little  bills  to  be  paid,  and  the  landlord's 


2l8  Wedlock 

account  to  be  settled  in  full.  She  could  hear 
him.  in  the  little  room  across  the  passage,  ex- 
plaining to  mine  host  that  he  had  no  doubt  as 
to  the  honesty  of  the  bill ;  it  was  no  use  his 
going  over  the  items ;  that  he  had  not  the 
least  idea  how  many  whiskies  and  sodas  he 
had  had,  and  that  if  he  had  no  objection  he 
would  prefer  to  settle  the  account  without  any 
further  arguments.  Then  she  heard  the  land- 
lord protest  that  they  wanted  them  to  come 
back  again,  and  therefore  he  was  particularly 
anxious  that  Mr.  Stacey  should  go  thoroughly 
into  the  bill,  so  that  if  there  was  anything  to 
which  he  objected  that  he  might  meet  him  at 
once. 

"My  friend,"  said  Alan,  "you  will  never 
make  your  fortune.  Here  you  have  enter- 
tained us  to  the  best  of  your  ability;  you 
have  satisfied  both  my  wife  and  myself,  and 
we  are  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  all  the 


To  the  Bitter  End 


219 


trouble  and  pains  that  you  have  been  at  to 
give  us  a  good  time.  I  am  quite  satisfied  that 
the  bill  is  all  right,  and  that  there  is  not  a 
single  item  in  it  to  which  any  reasonable  man 
could  raise  any  objection." 

Then  she  heard  the  chink  of  money,  and, 
from  the  silence  that  followed,  guessed  that 
the  landlord  was  employed  in  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  receipting  the  bill.  She  wondered  how 
many  more  hotel  bills  would  be  made  out, 
paid  and  receipted  for  their  sojourn  together. 
She  wondered,  if  Edward  Conway  found  her, 
and  she  decided  to  stay  with  Alan — if  Alan 
did  not  wish  her  to  go  away — she  wondered 
what  people  in  London  would  say ;  how  they 
would  take  it?  She  supposed  that,  in  that 
case,  Edward  Conway  would  make  it  the 
business  of  his  life  to  follow  them  round  and 
explain  to  every  one  the  exact  position  in 
which  they  were  placed.  Would  it  be  better 


220  Wedlock 

to  tell  everybody  ?  "Would  the  story  get  into 
the  papers  ?  Would  it  be  blazoned  from  one 
end  of  the  world  to  the  other  that  Alan 
Stacey's  wife  had  a  story  as  romantic  as  any 
of  the  thrilling  pages  which  had  come  from 
his  pen  ? 

She  bethought  her,  in  her  distress  and  anx- 
iety, of  a  silly  game  called  "  Consequences,"  a 
game  in  which  the  last  clause  is — "  And  the 
world  said."  .  .  .  What  would  the  world 
say  to  them — to  her  ?  She  did  not  know ;  she 
did  not  dare  to  think.  Only  she  felt  resolved 
that  so  long  as  she  could  keep  the  secret  she 
would  do  so. 

"  And  you  will  come  back  again,  sir  ?  "  she 
heard  the  boniface  say. 

"  Yes,  I  expect  we  shall  come  back  again  the 
next  time  I  have  got  a  spell  of  hard  work  on 
and  want  to  get  out  of  London.  It  is  difficult 
to  work  in  London,"  she  heard  Alan  answer ; 


To  the  Bitter  End  221 

"  it  is  difficult  to  keep  free  of  interruptions  and 
so  on.  We  have  enjoyed  ourselves  very  much, 
I  can  assure  you." 

Then  she  heard  a  heavy  footfall  entering  the 
house.  Her  anxious,  strained  ears  told  her 
whose  steps  they  were.  They  passed  her  door 
to  the  sanded  bar,  and  then  she  heard  Edward 
Con  way's  voice  saying — "  You  have  a  lady  here 
that  is  passing  under  the  name  of  Stacey. 
Which  is  her  room  ?  " 

Then  there  was  a  rush  across  the  passage, 
and  Alan  Stacey  burst  into  the  room  and 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said,  "I  have  been 
dreading  this  for  weeks  and  weeks.  The  blow 
has  fallen  at  last." 

And  by  some  instinct  Mary  knew  not  only 
that  he  had  known  the  truth  all  along,  but 
that  he  had  been  the  first  of  the  two  to 
hear  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LET  NO  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER 

THERE  was  only  time  for  a  hurried  whisper 
between  them. 

"  You  won't  desert  me — you  won't  give  me 
over  to  him  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"Never,"  he  answered;  "never,  while  I 
live." 

Then  the  door  was  pushed  hurriedly  open, 
and  Edward  Conway's  blunt  features  and  burly 
figure  appeared  before  them. 

It  was  apparent  to  the  meanest  observation 
that  the  man  was  beside  himself  with  passion. 
He  stood  just  within  the  doorway,  his  hands 
thrust  deep  down  into  his  trouser  pockets,  eye- 
ing first  one  and  then  the  other  with  his  flinty 

eyes,  and  upon  his  lips  was  a  terrible  sneer. 
222 


Let  No  Man  Put  Asunder        223 

""Well,  Mrs.  Conway,"  he  began  at  last; 
"  have  you  no  sort  of  welcome  for  me — your 
long  lost  husband,  given  up  for  lost  years  since 
— your  little  more  than  bridegroom?  Still 
silent  ?  Have  you  nothing  to  say  ?  " 

Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from  be- 
tween them. 

"  Still  silent  ?  No  fond  word  of  greeting  ? 
Too  much  astonished,  eh  ?  You  made  sure  I 
was  dead  and  gone,  didn't  you  ?  But  Edward 
Conway  is  not  got  rid  of  so  easily  as  that, 
don't  you  think  it.  Edward  Conway  has  been 
under  for  a  good  long  time,  and  Edward  Con- 
way  has  got  up  again,  and  he  has  come  back 
again  to  his  happy  home  and  his  loving  little 
wife  that  he  left  behind  him." 

"  You  shall  never  come  back  to  me !  I 
would  never  have  lived  with  you  again — you 
knew  it ! " 

"  Oh,  you're  thinking  still  of  a  bit  of  a  tiff ! 


224  Wedlock 

What's  that  between  husband  and  wife.  Have 
you  never  tiffed  with  this  Johnny  that  you 
took  up  with  as  soon  as  I  was  gone  ?  " 

"This  lady  is  my  wife,  sir,"  put  in  Alan 
Stacey,  with  dignity. 

«  Your  what  f  " 

"  My  wife,  sir.  Your  turning  up  again,  most 
inopportunely,  may  annul  our  marriage;  but 
no  slur  will  rest  upon  this  lady.  There  is  no- 
body who  knows  her  that  will  not  pity  her, 
and  pity  her  doubly,  first,  for  having  been 
married  to  you  at  all,  secondly,  for  having 
been  the  victim  of  a  terrible  chain  of  circum- 
stances. This  lady  did  not  take  up  with  me — 
she  married  me  with  all  due  formality  and 
blessing  of  the  Church.  Until  you  have  legal 
proof  that  our  marriage  be  no  marriage,  she  is 
my  wife." 

"  She  is  coming  back  with  me,"  said  Ed- 
ward Conway,  shutting  his  teeth  hard,  and 


Let  No  Man  Put  Asunder        225 

snapping  the  words  out  as  if  his  lips  were  rat- 
traps. 

"She  is  never  going  with  you — she  will 
never  have  anything  to  do  with  you  again — 
never.  She  would  never  have  lived  with  you 
again,  under  any  circumstances.  You  took 
advantage  of  her ;  you  bought  her  with  a  price. 
You  ill-used  her ;  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it — but 
— you  struck  her — your  little  more  than  bride. 
And  you  can  ask  her,  when  she  has  tasted  the 
sweets  of  a  real  marriage,  when  she  has  known 
what  it  is  to  live  with  a  man  who  would 
thrust  his  hand  into  the  fire  rather  than 
raise  it  against  a  woman,  you  can  ask  her 
to  go  back  to  the  slavery  and  degradation 
of  life  with  you!  Think,  my  good  sir,  is  it 
likely?" 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it's  likely,"  said  Ed- 
ward Conway ;  "  I  know  what  the  law  is,  and 
I  mean  to  have  it ! " 


226  Wedlock 

"  I  will  never  go  back  to  him — never ! " 
Mary  flashed  out. 

"  As  for  you,  you  Jack  'a  Dandy,"  Edward 
Conway  went  on,  taking  no  notice  of  her  in- 
terruption, "  I  didn't  know  you  this  morning, 
when  I  saw  you  standing  talking  at  the  old 
man's  door.  I  asked  you  if  you  knew  some 
people  here  who  were  passing  under  the  name 
of  Stacey  ?  And  you  asked  me  what  the  man 
was  like,  and  what  he  did  for  a  living  ?  I 
told  you  that  he  scribbled  novels,  and  that  I 
did  not  know  what  his  appearance  was.  And 
you  told  me  that  you  had  never  met  him  !  " 

"  I  never  did,"  said  Stacey,  with  deliberate 
insolence. 

"  You  told  me  that  you  did  not  know  any- 
thing about  him  ;  and  you  sent  me — you  sent 
me — you  sent  me  to  Roathlyn !  You  told  me 
that  there  was  somebody — an  artist,  or  a  scrib- 
bling chap,  or  somebody  who  lived  by  his 


Let  No  Man  Put  Asunder        227 

wits,  and  who  had  a  pretty  woman  with  him, 
staying  at  Eoathlyn.  You  thought  you  had 
got  rid  of  me,  eh  ?  But  you  were  beaten  for 
once  in  your  life.  You  live  by  your  wits,  do 
you?  Eh?  And  other  people  have  wits,  if 
they  don't  live  by  'em !  I  went  down  the 
street,  after  we  parted  at  the  door  here,  and  I 
asked  an  old  grandfather,  who  looked  a  cheery 
old  soul  and  likely  to  know  the  neighborhood, 
I  asked  him  if  he  knew  any  people  of  the 
name  of  Stacey?  He  put  me  on  the  right 
track.  '  Why,'  said  he,  '  that's  the  gentleman 
who  is  living  at  the  Powys  Arms — him  I've 
heard  tell  is  writing  a  story-book.'  Sc  I  came 
back  to  find  the  gentleman  who  was  writing  a 
story-book." 

"Then,"  said  Alan  Stacey,  his  voice  very 
cutting  and  calm,  "  then  my  good  sir,  you  can 
go  back  again.  This  is  not  the  place  in  which 
to  settle  a  dispute  of  this  kind.  I  presume 


228  Wedlock 

you  have  a  lawyer  ?  I  will  give  you  the  ad- 
dress of  mine.  No  power  on  earth  can  force 
this  lady  to  live  with  you  again.  She  definitely 
refuses  the  honor.  Everybody  in  London 
knows  where  I  live — or  if  there  be  any  that 
don't  know  they  can  very  easily  find  out.  I 
will  give  you  every  information." 

"  You  will  give  me  my  wife." 

"  That  I  never  will.  While  I  have  breath 
in  my  body,  I  will  stick  to  the  woman  who 
took  me  in  good  faith,  for  better  for  worse. 
And  if  I  know  anything  of  my  friends,  they 
will  honor  her  more  for  staying  with  me  than 
they  would  if  she  went  back  to  what  some 
people  would  call  her  duty  and  you." 

"Lawyers!"  repeated  Edward  Conway, 
contemptuously ;  "  I  don't  believe  in  lawyers 
between  man  and  wife.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  It  is 
all  simple  and  fair  and  above  board.  I  want 
nothing  out  of  the  way,  but  what  I  want  / 


Let  No  Man  Put  Asunder        229 

mean  to  have.  I  married  yon  white-faced 
hussy  because  I  was  mad  about  her.  I  was  a 
fool,  but  men  are  always  fools  in  that  way. 
I've  been  stuck  on  a  desert  island  for  nearly 
six  years,  where  I've  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
think  about  the  wife  who  scorned  me ;  and  I 
thought — and  I  thought — that  if  ever  I  got 
back  I'd  make  her  eat  her  words,  I'd  make  her 
come  like  a  dog  to  my  feet." 

"  Here,  get  out  of  this !  "  said  Stacey,  break- 
ing in  ruthlessly  upon  his  raving — "  Get  out  of 
this !  There'll  be  no  '  dog  to  your  feet '  about 
this  lady ;  so,  my  good  fellow,  put  that  out  of 
your  mind  at  once.  Take  what  steps  you  like. 
Enter  a  divorce — we  shall  not  defend  it — 
please  yourself  what  you  do,  only  take  your- 
self out  of  our  way.  That's  all  we  ask. 
At  all  events  get  out  of  this  room.  It's 
mine." 

"  And  that — tha£  is  my  wife ! " 


230  Wedlock 

"That's  as  may  be  settled  in  court  after- 
ward. Get  out  of  my  room." 

"  Not  without  my  wife." 

"  I  promise  you  you  will,  and  you'll  go  a  good 
deal  quicker  than  you  like  if  you  don't  get  out 
at  once.  Now  come  ;  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
scene  or  a  row.  You're  an  older  man  than  I 
am,  and  I  don't  wish  to  try  which  of  us  is  the 
better  man  of  the  two.  At  the  same  time 
your  presence  is  unpleasant  to  me,  and  dis- 
tasteful to  this  lady,  and  the  sooner  you  re- 
lieve us  of  it  the  better.  Now,  out  you  go !  " 

There  was  a  momentary  scuffle,  and  then 
the  door  was  shut,  and  Alan  Stacey's  back 
was  against  it.  He  and  Mary  were  on  one 
side  of  the  door  and  Edward  Conway  was  on 
the  other. 

On  his  side  Edward  Conway  began  frantic- 
ally to  beat  at  the  door ;  then  he  kicked ;  and 
at  last,  when  the  stout  panels  showed  signs  of 


Let  No  Man  Put  Asunder        231 

giving  way,  there  was  a  sudden  cessation  of 
the  efforts  to  enter — a  pause — a  groan — and 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  body  tumbling  to  the 
ground. 

"  Hush !  Something  has  happened,"  said 
Stacey  to  Mary. 

"Oh,  Alan!" 

"  Yes ;  they've  all  stopped  talking ;  I  heard 
the  landlord's  voice  a  minute  ago.  I  shall 
open  the  door." 

"Oh,  no;  don't,  Alan.  He  may  shoot 
you ! " 

"  No,  no.     Listen.    He  has  had  a  fit." 

And  so  it  proved  to  be.  The  excitement, 
the  great  mental  struggle,  and  the  physical 
strain  to  which  the  unfortunate  man  had  put 
himself  in  trying  to  force  open  the  door,  had 
all  done  their  work. 

When  Alan  opened  the  door,  it  was  to  find 
Edward  Conway  on  the  stone  floor  of  the 


232  Wedlock 

passage  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and  Mary  was 
practically  a  free  woman.  They  raised  him 
from  the  floor  and  carried  him  to  bed  but  he 
never  spoke  or  showed  signs  of  consciousness 
again.  For  a  few  hours  he  lingered,  breath- 
ing heavily  and  with  labor ;  and  during  all 
those  hours  of  anxious  waiting,  Mary  stayed 
down  on  the  beach,  listening  to  the  beating  of 
the  waters  upon  the  rock-bound  coast,  and 
wondering,  wondering,  whether  Providence 
would  be  kind  to  her  or  not  ? 

Then  Alan  Stacey  came  down  to  tell  her 
that  all  was  over. 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  "  this  has  been  a  horrible 
time  for  you.  I  knew  as  soon  as  the  report 
came  that  they  had  rescued  some  of  the  crew 
of  the  Arikhama  ;  I  saAv  it  in  the  evening  pa- 
pers. I  have  never  been  sure  whether  you 
knew  or  not.  Perhaps  I  was  selfish  to  keep 
it  from  you ;  but  I  felt  that  I  could  not — could 


Let  No  Man  Put  Asunder        233 

not — come  and  tell  you  what  would  put  you 
out  of  my  life,  out  of  my  home — although 
nothing  could  ever  put  you  out  of  my  heart. 
Nobody  will  know  anything  about  it  now — 
unless,  indeed,  by  the  merest  chance,  when 
there  would  be  neither  blame  nor  ignominy 
attached  to  either  of  us.  I  told  the  landlord 
a  lie.  I  told  him  that  Conway  had  mistaken 
you  for  somebody  else — and  he  believed  it.  I 
told  him  that  it  would  be  very  unpleasant  for 
you  if,  when  his  relations  came  down,  you 
were  mixed  up  in  the  story  in  any  way,  and  I 
gave  him  a  tenner  to  leave  us  out  of  the  affair 
as  far  as  is  possible.  He  was  most  sympathetic. 
He  will  never  trouble  us.  We  will  go  back  to 
London  at  once — we  can  get  part  of  the  way 
to-night — and  as  soon  as  possible  we  will  be 
quietly  married  in  some  out  of  the  way  church, 
where  nobody  need  know  anything  about  us." 
"  Dear  Alan,"  said  she, "  what  out  of  the  way 


234  Wedlock 

church  will  you  find  where  nobody  will  know 
anything  about  you  ?  " 

"Well,  dear  child,  there  are  good  souls  in 
the  world,  who  would  not  hurt  us  by  blazon- 
ing forth  this  unhappy  story.  It  is  no  great 
matter  if  the  world  does  know ;  it  will  be  cer- 
tain sure  then  that  you  and  I  are  fast  tied  in 
Wedlock." 


A    DAUGHTER    OF 
THE  PHILISTINES 

By  LEONARD  MERRICK 

"His  the  kind  one  longs  to  find  after  trying 
jnany  and  not  meeting  satisfaction."  —  Times 
Uniont  Albany. 

44  A  constantly  increasing  pleasure  as  you  peruse 
page  after  page."—  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

"  It  is  a  good  one  and  an  interesting  one."  —  Buf- 
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44  A  noteworthy  novel."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

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clusion." —  Book  Buyer. 

44  A  distinctly  good  novel  of  real  life."  —  Boston 
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44  A  capital  story."  —  New  York  Pre&. 

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"A  delightful  story."  —  Cincinnati  Enquirer. 

44  Has  a  quality  of  its  own."  —  Literary  World. 

44  Unusually  strong  points."-l?itffalo  Commercial 

44  An  extremely  clever  story."  —  Albany  Argus. 

44  Interesting  creation."  —  Louisville  Times. 

44  With  a  feeling  of  loving  regret  I  lay  down  the 
book."  —  Evening  Record. 

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^  44  An  extremely  clever  tale."  —  ludianapolis  Sen- 
Hnel. 

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dianapolis. 

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ft  to  the  end,  and  never  for  a  moment  degen- 
erates .....  One  sits  through  the  story  with  gen- 
uine pleasure,  and  rises  from  the  reading  of  it  with 
indubitable  refreshment."  —  Daily  Chronicle. 


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phases  and  will  repay  reading." — Minneapolis 
Tribune. 

"  It  is  written  in  the  usual  entertaining  style  of 
this  well  known  author." — Boston  Courier. 

"Very  good  reading." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"The  action  is  vigorous  and  the  story  is  interest- 
ing."— Public  Opinion." 

"Capital  story  by  an  established  favorite." — 
Philadelphia  American. 

"  Is  a  charming  German  story  by  the  author  of 
"Heart's  Darling,"  "Good  Luck,"  "  Her  Only 
Brother,"  etc." — Southern  Star. 

"It  possesses  the  positive  virtue  of  being  pure 
and  wholesome  in  sentiment. '' — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  It  comprises  all  the  many  qualities  of  romance 
that  recommend  all  Heimburg's  other  stories." — 
New  Haven  Journal. 

"  It  is  simple,  but  dignified  and  free  from  any  of 
those  smirches  that  suggest  the  presence  of  vice  and 
impurity." — N.  Y.  Home  Journal. 


NEW   YORK 

R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANr 


Iftno,  cloth,  $1.25 

THE   MASSARENES 

By  OUIDA 

AUTHOR  OF 

*  dNBRR  TWO  FI.AGS,"  "  WANDA,"  BTC. 

•'The  finish  of  the  story  is  as  artistic  as  is  that 
Of  'Vanity  Fair'  "— N.  Y.  Journal. 

"  Ouida  in  her  old  age  has  written  her  best  book.*' 
— Evening  Sun. 

"  It  is  the  strongest  she  has  written  with  thepos- 
rible  exception  of  'Under  Two  Flags.' " — N.  Y.JPress 

"  Ouida  beats  them  all;  her  latest  story  is  more 
wicked  than  those  of  the  modern  sensationalist, 
and  better  told. — Chicago  Journal. 

"  In  some  respects  the  ablest  of  all  her  books.  "— 
Jf.  Y.  Herald. 

"  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  ntnc ; . " — Boston 
Gazette. 

"  Ouida's  stories  are  never  dull,  aad  this  one  is 
quite  as  lively  as  any  of  the  others.*' — Army  and 
Navy  Register. 

"  She  has  not  lost  any  of  her  cynicism  nor  any  of 
her  skill  to  weave  a  seductive  plot." — Boston  Globe. 

"There  is  a  distinct  moral  purpose  running  all 
through  the  book,  a  purpose  which  it  will  be  im- 
possible for  the  most  careless  reader  to  overlook. " 
— 7%e  Beacon,  Boston. 

"A  clever  story  of  English  high  life  as  it  is  re- 
presented to-day."— The  Bookseller. 

"  A  decided  story- interest  and  some  clever  char- 
acter drawing." — The  Outlook. 

"  Katherine  Massarene  is  drawn  with  a  skill  that 
one  of  the  best  female  characters  that 
*'  h.°s  given  us. " — Public  Opinion. 

:  R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMP4  NY 


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